Reflections
by NerdyJibbsOreo
Summary: Various moments in which Jethro Gibbs is reflecting on Jenny after her death.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This is basically a compilation of small one-shot ideas I had_ — _which I decided to just stick together in a series, since they are all basically related to each other. Most likely comprising of about 10 chapters. I only have a vague outline of it all, and the chapters will all vary in length. Some may be just a couple hundred words, others may be over 5,000._

 _All of these are basically Jethro dealing with his feelings about Jenny after her death_ — _at different points over the next 10 years._

 _You know the song "Ice Ice Baby"? Replace "Ice" with "Angst", and that pretty much summarizes the whole of this. Angst, angst, baby!_

 _This first chapter is a tag to "Judgment Day Part 2"._

* * *

Mike Franks walked up behind his friend, following him into his house. It had gone without saying that he needed somewhere to crash for the night, which was probably the only reason why Jethro Gibbs was silently letting him follow him through the front door.

Mike knew that his probie probably wanted to be alone, that he probably wanted to drink and sleep away the pain that he was obviously pretending not to feel. On the other hand, Mike was glad he was there to keep Jethro company. He knew full well that no matter how many years you had under your belt to harden and desensitize you—losing a close colleague, someone you cared about—wasn't going to be any easier.

He stared warily at Jethro's back, noticing that he had paused in the entryway to the living room and was just staring blankly at his couch.

"I'll get the bourbon," Mike spoke up, walking past Jethro before he could argue, heading towards the basement.

He shuffled around the basement looking at things, giving the other man a couple of minutes to himself.

There was an empty bottle of bourbon on the table, sitting beside an empty mason jar and a stack of large pictures. Mike walked closer. The pictures were sitting on top of a thick case file that they appeared to belong to. A bullet casing and magnifying glass were laying among it all.

He sat at the little wooden stool, and adjusted the file to look at the case name and number on the cover. He then scanned through the contents, glancing at the pictures and the rest of the information.

He wondered how long Jethro had been perusing the contents of this case—one that clearly involved the very woman that was no doubt on the raw surface of Jethro's mind right now.

Jethro would probably be torturing himself on the inside about some of this, probably blame it on himself for years to come, even though none of it was his fault. The whole thing had been a mess—loose ends always were.

Mike shook his head.

He wondered why those two had never gotten back together.

She was one of the main things Jethro had consistently brought up when he was crashing at Mike's house in Mexico a couple years ago. He clearly had feelings for the woman, and when he left and returned to NCIS, Mike had thought it was only a matter of time before he heard about Jethro getting hitched for the fifth time.

She clearly had feelings for Jethro as well, based on those last conversations she had with Mike himself. Hell, she died to protect the man.

She was a complicated woman though, as Jethro had told Mike in Mexico.

Mike snorted to himself. They were _both_ complicated people—both stubborn as hell workaholics. He could understand them, because he had been the same way when he was at NCIS.

That was probably why it didn't work out between them. They both had probably been stubbornly waiting out time, playing some game with each other, waiting for the other one to break first and 'force' their hand.

Mike chuckled under his breath, thinking that if the two obstinate kids had gotten together, it probably would have ended in another divorce for Jethro. Unless Jethro would have wised up this go around and been more communicative and less uncompromising.

Mike closed the file, shutting out the thoughts of what could have been different for his friend with this woman. She was dead now. There was no changing it, and anything that 'could have been' died with her.

He got up and searched around the shelves and cabinets in the corner, looking to see if Jethro had any more bourbon. He felt relieved upon locating a bottle in the top shelves, grabbing it and heading back to the stairs.

As he exited the laundry room door into the kitchen, he grabbed two mugs from the cabinet, and then crossed into the dining room and placed the mugs and alcohol on the table. He looked up into the living room, feeling almost pained by the pitiful sight of Jethro still standing in the same exact place he had left him ten minutes ago, still staring at his couch as if lost to the world.

"Come on, probie," he called out. "Take a seat, got a glass of bourbon with yer name on it," he said as he uncapped the bottle and poured a generous amount into both mugs.

He heard Jethro clear his throat, and start moving into the kitchen. They sat down across from each other, Mike handing Jethro his mug.

Mike looked at Jethro, watching as the man downed the drink far too quickly.

Jethro placed the empty mug back down on the table, and rubbed his hand across his chin, looking irritated. He rested his elbow on the table, letting his chin sit in his hand.

Mike poured some more bourbon in the mug, and they both drank silently for a few more minutes.

"Mike," Jethro finally said hoarsely.

"Hm?" Mike grunted in response.

"You said...in her house"—Jethro cleared his throat, looking on edge—"said she... _cared_ —" Jethro's voice broke and he stopped talking, taking another swig from his mug.

"I remember," Mike responded, nodding his head, waiting for Jethro.

" _Girl cared for you. Had a lot of regrets,"_ he had said to Jethro earlier.

" _We all do,"_ was all Jethro had responded.

Jethro cleared his throat again, looking conflicted.

"How do you know—I mean...did she say...?" Jethro trailed off, his hard eyes looking into Mike's.

Mike pondered for a few seconds, debating how much of those last conversations Jethro should hear. He didn't know if it would bring comfort, or if it would simply bring painful regret.

"Think she must've known time was almost out, seemed to open up before it all went down. Talked a little 'bout you," Mike responded carefully.

Jethro rubbed his chin again before folding his arms and turning his head, looking towards the dark dining room window.

"What'd she say...'bout me?" Jethro questioned, his gaze on the window.

Mike snorted.

"Been a long couple o' days, probie. Lot has happened, don't remember every lit—"

"Mike," Jethro interrupted, turning to glare at him.

Mike sighed. They knew each other too well.

"You tryin' to torture yourself or somethin'?" Mike questioned.

Jethro continued to glare at him.

"Fine," Mike relented, drinking the last mouthful in his mug before he talked. "Said she made some choices she weren't proud of, said she was the one who left you 'cause you didn't fit into her 'five point plan'. Sounded regretful, bitter. Told her it came back to choices and she made her bed." Mike grabbed the bottle of bourbon and poured a more minimal amount into their mugs again. "Her response was; 'What if I don't want to sleep in it'. Then I asked her if you knew...she said; 'Would it make a difference'."

Jethro grunted, clearing his throat again, shifting uncomfortably. Mike could tell it was taking all of his strength to try and act neutral, but he could see right through it. His eyes were redder, slightly glassy, and he was clearly on edge.

"When you made it back in the diner...was she still alive?" Jethro asked softly.

"Damn it, probie, you really wanna know all the gory details?" Mike asked in frustration.

The bloodbath he had returned to—the dying almost unconscious woman laying on the floor that had been just fine a mere minute ago—had not been a pretty sight. Mike didn't like thinking about it, and he'd been shutting it out, just like he had learned to shut out all the other gruesome things he had witnessed in his lifetime.

Jethro stared at him silently for a minute, seeming to weigh the question. He shook his head, but then looked conflicted and opened his mouth, as if debating what to say.

"I don't like the idea of her..." Jethro said hoarsely, pausing to swallow, "dyin' alone..."

"She wasn't alone," Mike responded calmly, "I was there."

Jethro nodded, clenching his jaw.

It was silent again for a minute, the air feeling heavy.

Mike thought about how after he had fired his four shots, he turned to where Jenny was and called her name, bending down to check her pulse. It had been very weak—rapidly declining. She was breathing shallowly and seemed to be on the verge of being completely unconscious. She had lost too much blood, and more was just steadily pooling out of her.

He knew there was nothing he could do.

 _"Jenny,"_ he had called out again, resting his hand lightly over her fingers.

 _"Jethro,"_ she had responded lethargically, her voice so weak he almost hadn't heard.

Within the next twenty seconds she was unconscious, and he couldn't detect a pulse anymore.

It hadn't been some dramatic movie death where she shuddered, coughed up blood, and took a gasping last breath.

It was quick and quiet—almost peaceful in a sense.

"It was so quick I don't think she felt the pain. She went peacefully," Mike assured Jethro.

Jethro nodded again, clasping his hands tightly.

"Was she unconscious by the time you reached her?" Jethro asked softly, his eyes piercing into Mike's.

Mike studied Jethro's face for a few seconds, debating on if he should answer truthfully or not.

"Mike?" Jethro probed.

"Almost," he answered vaguely.

Jethro swallowed.

"She say anything?" Jethro inquired further.

"She was real injured, wasn't really—"

"Mike," Jethro interjected again.

Mike shook his head, cursing the fact that he had taught his probie to read people too well.

"She said yer name," Mike admitted heavily, Jethro's eyes widening. "Said 'Jethro', when I put my hand over hers. Was unconscious after that," he explained, eyeing Jethro warily.

Jethro sat there looking almost paralyzed, as if he wasn't sure what to do with the information. He shifted a little again, and then brought his hands up to his face, rubbing his forehead with his fingers.

Mike then watched helplessly as his friend did something he hadn't witnessed him do since '91—he broke down.

The dam Jethro had always stubbornly kept up had finally burst as he covered his eyes with his hands and his shoulders shook violently.

Mike just sat there silently, letting Jethro get it out of his system. He needed to, it was better that way. Mike didn't like to cry, he didn't like to see other people cry—but he knew from experience that if you tried to hold it all in, it would eat you up inside. Every agent knew that. It was part of the job to act tough and keep it together, just like it was part of the job to allow yourself a breakdown when you were finally alone and off duty.

Mike couldn't help but feel a little guilty as he listened to Jethro's stifled sobs. If he hadn't gone out to get the damn water, the woman could still be alive, and he wouldn't be sitting here watching his friend cry.

He would do anything for his probie, and right now he was wishing he had let her go out and get the water—wishing he had taken the bullets instead. Hell, he wished they hadn't bothered with the stupid water in the first place. Judging by how she had taken out all those men, had they both been in there together it would have been a quick and easy job. He doubted either of them would've gotten severely injured. Like he had said to Jethro earlier, she was an artist with a steal.

He took another gulp of alcohol.

Then again, from the sounds of it she was going to die anyway. He wondered what would have been worse for Jethro—this—or watching the woman die from whatever sickness it was that she had. Dying from an illness was generally slow and painful—it would've been hard for Jethro to watch. On the other hand, at least watching someone be in pain and slowly die also brought a form of preparation with it. With something like this, there was no warning, no early closure or time to prepare—just pure shock, confusion, and an unexpected wave of grief.

After a couple more minutes of silence, Jethro was finally removing his hands from his face. He wiped his eyes and cheeks off with the back of his hands and took a deep breath. Mike got up and grabbed some napkins from the kitchen, handing them to Jethro.

"She was sick, ya know. Don't think she had much time left," Mike said as he sat back down.

"I know," Jethro responded, wiping off his face with a napkin.

"She said ya didn't know," Mike replied, chuckling under his breath.

Jethro snorted.

"Always knew when Jen was lyin', she had a tell," Jethro admitted, a small smile showing on his face.

"We all do, much as we'd like to pretend we don't," Mike said, chuckling again.

"I never told her, Mike," Jethro said hoarsely, his bloodshot eyes looking wet again.

Mike raised an eyebrow at Jethro, not sure if he was following.

"Never told her how I felt," Jethro explained. "You told me to tell her after I left Mexico, and I didn't listen," Jethro said, shaking his head at himself. "I kept holdin' onto the bitterness, kept bein' stubborn. Had all these opportunities, didn't take a damn one."

Jethro took a shaky breath.

"Why the hell didn't I listen to you?" Jethro asked, looking frustrated. "Damn it," Jethro swore, raising his voice, "she handed me an opportunity months ago, and like the bastard I am I said _no_!" Jethro said, slamming a clenched fist on the table, his eyes full of anger.

"What if you hadn't?" Mike questioned. "Then what? You get to sit here feeling even worse? If you'd opened that door again, you'd be hurtin' ten times as much right now, probie," Mike reasoned.

"But at least I'd have been with her again, at least she wouldn't have died wonderin' if I even gave a damn," Jethro retorted bitterly.

"Don't torture yourself with a bunch of what ifs. There ain't no goin' back, no point in questionin' it all," Mike stated bluntly.

"You think I don't know that?" Jethro spat out resentfully, his eyes flashing.

Mike ignored the angry comment, watching silently as Jethro rubbed his eyes in irritation.

He thought about earlier in Jenny's house, when he shot the lady who had her gun pointed at Jethro.

 _"You were gonna go for that, weren't you, probie?"_ He had asked Jethro.

He seriously wondered if Jethro hadn't been intending to go for the gun at all, if he had just been tempting chance, gambling with death.

Maybe he had just been feeling confident that the woman wouldn't actually pull the trigger. He had seemed to have planned the whole 'burn the body and the house' thing in advance, after all.

Still, Mike wondered if Jethro had hesitated because for a mad second there he had seriously considered wanting it all to end. He had looked almost betrayed after Mike had shot her—looked angry, sad, bitter, and doubtful all at once. He didn't even answer Mike's question.

"I should've been there, Mike," Jethro spoke up, his head in his hands. "I knew Decker. Worked with him n' Jenny just a couple of years after you retired. We were all on a team. I should've gone with Jen to the funeral. Wouldn't have let her out of my sight, could've helped her."

"Why didn't ya go?" Mike asked.

"She requested DiNozzo and Ziva, wanted me to hold down the fort. But I should've insisted on going, should've made DiNozzo stay instead, he would've been fine," Jethro replied.

"Judgin' by how things went with me bein' there, you could've ended up in the same position as me, probie. You wouldn't have wanted to see that," Mike responded heavily.

Jethro lifted his hands off of his face, his bloodshot eyes heavy and dull. He looked worn thin, looked more exhausted than Mike had ever seen him before.

* * *

There were a few things Mike was certain of when he headed back to Mexico.

He was certain that he would be there for Jethro whenever he needed him for the rest of his days. He had already known that before—hell, Jethro was the only reason he'd helped Jenny in the first place. He felt even more committed now though, like he owed it to him.

He had made it clear to Jethro that he could call him anytime. He had decided that if Jethro ever called and asked him to hop on a flight to DC, he would just do it, no questions asked. He was also determined to call Jethro himself and check up on him more often.

He was certain that Jethro would be okay. He knew that the hurt would take some time to heal, and that it would never go away entirely—but he also knew that eventually it would become bearable, and Jethro would accept it and move on.

He was also certain that when he died, he was going to leave Jethro Decker's insurance policy, as well as any other things that could be useful to him.

As Mike looked out the little airplane window, taking in the clouds, he also knew for certain that he had formed an even more special bond with Jethro than they already had. Considering the last couple of nights filled with drinking and emotional vulnerability.

Mike looked up and scanned the heads of the other passengers on the plane, and noticed a mop of red hair a few rows ahead. He wondered briefly if Jethro would find another spirited redhead to eventually fill the void—or if Jenny had been the last one to break his heart.


	2. Chapter 2

Jethro Gibbs woke up with a massive headache, and was acutely aware of the fact that his body was stiff and sore. He blinked his eyes open tiredly, adjusting to his surroundings, and realized he had fallen asleep on his boat—again. He glanced at his watch, letting out a frustrated groan when he realized it was later than he had thought. He turned his head to the side, glaring at the bottle of bourbon sitting beside him.

He put a palm on his forehead and rubbed, inwardly cursing himself for drinking too much last night. He gingerly sat up, giving himself a couple of minutes to adjust. Flashes from his dreams swirled in his brain, and suddenly he wished he was in a bourbon induced state of sleep again.

He couldn't decide if he was grateful or annoyed that it was the weekend and there was no case. His headache was probably grateful, but the fact that there was nothing to distract him was grating. Normally, he would be at work anyway, distracting himself with paperwork and cold cases.

But things had changed.

Work was almost more depressing and torturous than being alone in the emptiness of his house. In fact, he didn't know which he preferred these days. At least he still had Ducky and Abby at NCIS...even then, their constant sympathetic gazes and veiled inquiries had been irritating.

The last 2 months had been _hell_.

He felt like he had almost lost everything again—he hadn't felt this bad since his girls were taken away from him in '91. With exception to Abby and Ducky—and hell, maybe even Palmer—he had lost everyone else at work that he deeply cared about.

He no longer had his team. Leon Vance had seen to that, the bastard.

He never thought he would miss DiNozzo and his big mouth, or McGee and his techno babble. He had grown a much softer spot for Ziva than he could ever actually admit.

He found himself staring at their desks sometimes, feeling irrationally annoyed at the people occupying them now.

It didn't matter that he had known both Agent Langer and Agent Lee before. It didn't matter that he had personally worked with, trained, and even _liked_ Agent Langer. Compared to the team he had before, they were just plain irritating.

The only person more annoyed than him about the whole situation was Abby, who was ice cold around the new guys. She never visited the bullpen unless absolutely necessary, and was only comfortable with him visiting the lab for updates.

He knew eventually she would warm up to them, like she had warmed up to Ziva, and she'd be her normal, friendly, and cheerful self again. He didn't like thinking about that though— _eventually—_ because it made everything feel so long term and permanent. He didn't want to warm up to his new 'team' because he didn't want to accept that this was reality.

He hated all the drastic change that had taken place so quickly—it all felt like some horrible dream he just wanted to wake up from. His complete lack of control and choice in his own damn team was _infuriating_.

At least he had chosen DiNozzo and McGee to be on his team, even if it had taken him some time to warm up to both of them. He hadn't chosen Ziva—she had been forced on him, and he had been uncooperative about it at the time—but she had turned out to be a damn good fit. Jenny's decision to place Ziva on his team showed just how well she knew him—sometimes better than he knew himself.

 _Jen_.

His main solace was that at least DiNozzo, McGee, and Ziva were all alive. At least he would probably see them again. He was bound to run into DiNozzo and McGee from time to time, at least.

He was never going to see Jenny again.

He was still adjusting to the fact that she was dead—still hadn't fully accepted it or come to terms with it. As if adjusting to having a whole new team and Director hadn't been hard enough, he was just busy trying to cope with the fact that she was gone forever. Her complete lack of presence in the NCIS building felt strangely crippling.

There had been one particular moment just days after her death when he had looked up at the catwalk and saw Leon strutting about. He had thought to himself that Jenny must be feeling pissed if Leon was around—the two had never gotten along very well. He had smirked, thinking for a second that he might go up and bother her just to rattle her a little more. Then he realized with a sharp pang that she wasn't around to bother anymore. Leon was there because Jenny wasn't, because he had replaced her, because she was _dead_.

It had been an almost suffocating moment of realization, in which he had to excuse himself to go get coffee because he didn't think he could stand to be in the building another damn second.

He always felt disappointed when he went into the Director's office and was met with the sight of Vance, as opposed to the fiery, glaring, redheaded, ex-lover he loved to tease. He never felt any kind of emotional anticipation when he climbed up the catwalk stairs to head to the Director's office anymore. He used to barge in her door ready to either fight or enjoy some teasing banter. Now he felt weakened, like he could barely even grasp the door handle to open it, because he knew she wouldn't be there.

He hadn't realized just how much her being at NCIS again had meant to him, just how comforting, exciting, and energizing her mere presence was. He hadn't realized just how much she had _meant_ to him.

The only other time she had affected him this much emotionally was when she left him after Paris. He would gladly endure the pain of that situation ten times over compared to the pain he was feeling now. This was so much worse—so incredibly final and inescapable.

He had spent everyday of the last two months cursing himself for being such an idiot with her.

He shouldn't have brushed off her confession of love so many years ago by saying, "That'll be the day". He should have admitted that he loved her too. His damn hesitancy was probably one of the main reasons she had chosen her career over him, and now that he realized it he couldn't blame her one bit for that decision anymore.

He had just felt so alarmed when she had confessed—intimidated because she had been the first woman since Shannon that he actually felt that same kind of fierce love for.

He shouldn't have let her get away with the damn "Dear John" letter, he should've gone after her.

He shouldn't have married Stephanie to try and get over her, in fact, these days he realized he could've married Jen instead had he gone after her. It occurred to him if he had, the last nine years would have been vastly different.

 _Nine_ _years_ _..._ nine entire years he could have been with her.

He also knew that had he ended up with her, he'd probably be a thousand times more miserable than he was now. No matter what could have been different in the past, she still would have died from whatever illness she had. He didn't think he could've survived the loss of another wife—he barely made it through alive the last time.

He wondered briefly if they would have had children.

He cursed under his breath and swung his legs off the boat, stretching a little to try and relieve his stiff muscles and sore body.

He had spent too much time thinking about her, thinking about all the things that could have been different. He hated himself for it, because he knew it was completely pointless. He wished he could just relax, wished his mind would quit overthinking every damn thing that he had no control over. No amount of thinking would bring her back or change the past.

He felt like he had just failed another woman in his life, and it bothered him.

He wasn't there for Shannon and Kelly like he should have been. He shouldn't have ever let Shannon testify.

He still felt like he had failed Kate on that rooftop.

He should've known that Jenny was still too inexperienced to take out her target in '99, he should've double checked everything and made sure there were no loose ends.

He should've insisted on going to Decker's funeral with her.

Instead, he had found himself at her funeral a week later.

He couldn't remember much from her funeral. It had been a very polite, business-like, political, government run ordeal—fit for the Director of a federal agency. He just remembered that none of it had really felt personal—none of it seemed fitting of the real Jenny.

The Jenny with vibrant green eyes, fiery red hair, and a personality that matched. The Jenny that was fierce in the field, passionate when she loved, and capable of conquering whatever she set her mind to. The Jenny with an enchanting laugh, bright smile, and sultry voice. The Jenny that had razor sharp wit and was always ready with a sarcastic comeback.

Instead, the whole thing had been about her career and political achievements. And her cause of death was one big charade—one that, though necessary, was not at all the way she had gone down fighting.

Jethro sighed and rubbed his head again, getting up and making his way to the stairs.

It wasn't just her funeral he didn't remember much of—the whole first month after her death was mostly a blur. He had barely gotten any sleep, lived on coffee, and spent every weekend with a bottle of bourbon and the boat.

He didn't know how he had managed to function, how he had managed to put up with Vance and his new 'team' without murdering someone or quitting. He nearly had quit, until he realized just how mind numbingly boring it had been the last time. Work was a useful distraction that could momentarily dull the pain sometimes.

In his darkest hours he almost half wished Mike hadn't shown up when he did, and Svetlana had taken him out. He hadn't been thinking very clearly in that moment—he had been being consumed by grief from sitting in her empty house, a house that contained far too many memories of her and their past.

He had originally intended to shoot Svetlana and exact his revenge, intended to finish what Jenny never had. And yet, he had done what he had fiercely taught others not to do—he hesitated—because being where his mother, Shannon, Kelly, and Jenny all were seemed almost welcoming.

He would shake himself out of those dark thoughts, knowing that it would have been the complete cowards way of going out. It would've been a complete mockery of everything he had worked for, everything he had taught—a mockery of what Jen had died trying to fix.

He paused in the kitchen, squinting from the bright light shining in through the windows of the house. He winced from the way his head was throbbing, and reached into the cupboard for a glass.

After gulping down some water he debated cooking some eggs, knowing he should get some food in his system, but feeling a little too nauseous to eat.

He suddenly heard the front door open, and turned around to look towards the living room. He stiffened, wondering who it was, not sure he could handle any company right now.

"Jethro?" A voice called out.

He relaxed, recognizing the familiar Scottish accent.

"Over here, Duck," he responded, walking through to the dining room.

"Good morning," Ducky greeted cheerfully as he walked from the living room into the dining room. He was carrying a bag, and placed it on the table, making Jethro wince from the clattering sound it made.

"Ah," Ducky said with a small smile, observing Jethro, "as I predicted."

Jethro just glared at his knowing look.

"Have you had anything to eat?" Ducky asked.

Jethro gave a noncommittal grunt.

"I came prepared," Ducky said, pulling out a teapot from the bag. "A cup of the Earl will help. It'll give you your morning caffeine boost that you would normally get from your coffee, only it will be more settling. Coffee is never the best idea with a hangover."

"Who says I'm hungover?" Jethro asked, glaring at the teapot.

Ducky smirked at him.

"I'm fairly certain it wouldn't even take a doctor such as myself to observe the obvious signs," Ducky said, gathering his tea materials and walking into the kitchen. "Putting that aside, I've known you long enough to guess how you've been spending your weekends the last couple of months," he commented from the kitchen as he busied himself.

Jethro sat in silence as Ducky went about making tea, not really paying attention as Ducky rambled on about historical facts that had to do with hangovers. _"And during the Middle Ages in Europe, doctors would suggest consuming raw eel and bitter almonds to combat the effects of a hangover."_

When Ducky was finished with the tea, he came back into the dining room with two steaming cups, placing one down in front of Jethro and sitting across from him.

"Best give it a few minutes to cool," Ducky said.

Jethro nodded and stared at the hot brown liquid in front of him, suddenly remembering how many times he and Jenny had consumed Earl Grey tea with Ducky when they were all undercover together in Paris.

"We've all been worried about you, Jethro."

"'M fine, Duck," he grunted, avoiding Ducky's gaze.

"Of course you're not 'fine'," Ducky replied calmly. "After everything that happened, if you were truly fine I'd be quite concerned about you. The others may have speculated on your past with Jennifer, but I was actually around to witness it. That little safe-house in Paris that we all lived in together...I may have pretended not to notice, but I would've been really daft not to pick up on how intimate you both were with each other," Ducky said with a chuckle.

Jethro rubbed his head. He had spent far too much time thinking about Jenny and their past already, talking about it was the last thing he wanted to do. He just wanted to forget, to move on.

"Why ya here?" He asked, trying not to sound too agitated.

"I wanted to check on you, you are my friend, after all," Ducky reprimanded. "You hardly come down to autopsy anymore, you don't answer my calls, and despite your usual behavior of being at NCIS constantly now you are only ever present when you absolutely need to be. Abby worries constantly and doesn't know how to help you, and while we all know you need your space, it's simply not healthy to be this distant from people for this long. You need people in your life, and we care about you."

Jethro took a drink of the hot tea, not sure how to respond.

"I do have one other reason for coming, though," Ducky added, reaching for the bag. "I was going through old boxes of things and found these, from our time in Europe," he said, handing something to Jethro.

Jethro looked down with interest at a thin little stack of photographs.

"You may already have some, I'm not sure. I know Jenny did," Ducky explained.

Jethro felt his throat constrict as he looked at the first picture. It was one Ducky had taken of Jenny at a museum they went to—she was standing by a statue admiring it. She'd always been beautiful, but he'd forgotten just how breathtaking she had looked back then.

He went to the next picture, one he had taken of Jenny and Ducky standing next to the little European car they had used for months. Jenny was looking at the car in an amused sort of way, and Ducky seemed to be laughing about something.

The next few were all ones either Ducky or Jethro had taken of Jenny, at various little tourist spots. Jethro was suddenly remembering just how much time he had spent avoiding having pictures taken of himself in Europe. He never minded taking pictures of Jenny, though.

He ran across one of him fast asleep on a bed, wrinkled sheets haphazardly thrown on him, part of his bare chest and his shoulders exposed. He couldn't help but blush a little, glancing up at Ducky quickly, who merely lifted an eyebrow at him and smirked.

"All that undercover work could be quite tiring at times," Ducky mused, taking a sip of tea with a mischievous glint in his eye.

Jethro cleared his throat, moving on to the next picture, hoping Ducky had never seen any of the similar ones he remembered taking of Jenny.

He smiled at a group photo of him, Jenny, Ducky, and Decker. Jethro had his arm snaked around Jenny's waist, and he wondered if they had always been completely oblivious to just how obvious they were—wondered how many people had simply pretended not to notice.

The next picture was one Ducky must have sneakily taken. Jethro and Jenny were sitting close beside each other at the little dining room table in the safe-house, Jenny's head resting on Jethro's shoulder. Files were in front of them that they appeared to be looking through. They both looked content, happy.

Another one of him and Jenny was next, in which they were both asleep on the couch in the safe-house. Jethro was spread out across the couch, his head on the armrest. Jenny was asleep on top of him, her head nestled under his chin, her hands on his shoulders. He had one arm wrapped protectively around her, the other dangling off the couch.

"Can't believe you pretended not to know that whole time, Duck," he commented, making Ducky smile.

"Well, it was quite entertaining to observe at times," Ducky said with a chuckle. "Had you two been aware of my knowledge, it would have taken all the fun out of it."

Jethro snorted, shaking his head a little in amusement.

Jethro reached a picture that made his eyebrows go up in surprise. It wasn't from Europe, it was much more recent than that, and he hadn't been expecting anything recent.

"Ah, those last couple are ones Abigail gave to me," Ducky supplied. "I asked if she had any of the Director, more specifically ones of you and Jennifer together. You know how she likes to carry a camera around during her little holiday events. _That_ one, Abigail told me," Ducky said pointing to it, "is from when she was having a little Halloween bash in the bullpen after work had wrapped up, in '05. No surprise that you are not in the midst of the party."

The picture was of him and Jenny, both standing up on the catwalk, apparently watching rather than joining in on the festivities below in the bullpen. They were both laughing about something, and he wished he could remember what it was that had them both looking so entertained. Jenny's hair was long, spilling across her shoulders attractively. She would have been Director for only about a month at that point.

He drew a finger down the picture gently.

Damn, he missed that smile, missed her laugh.

He went to the next and last picture, one of him and Jenny in Abby's lab. They must have been fighting over something, as usual. Jethro was glaring at her, and she had an eyebrow cocked up at him, giving him that amused, triumphant expression she always reserved for him. The one for whenever she was right or simply playing the rank card. Jenny had a hand on her waist, and her short, red hair stuck out colorfully in the white lab. He couldn't help but feel amused that Abby must have been feeling quite bored and tired of their power struggle to be taking some completely random photo of them.

He shook his head at himself, wishing he hadn't spent so much time fighting with Jenny, glaring at her. He wished he had been more easy on her when she was Director, wished he would've been more respectful and shown more appreciation.

He put the photo back with the rest of the stack, aligning the edges of them together. He was suddenly wishing there were more pictures, more physical evidence of memories. He had felt the same way after Shannon and Kelly had died, violently wishing he had taken every opportunity with the camera as possible.

He looked up at Ducky.

"Thanks for bringin' these," he said gratefully, nodding at Ducky, trying to ignore the catch he felt in his throat. He slid them back towards Ducky.

"No, no, these are yours to keep," Ducky replied, sliding them back to him. "I made copies of the ones I wanted for myself."

"Thanks," Jethro said again, resting his hand over the stack reverently.

He felt a little better after looking at them, and at the same time he felt incredibly nostalgic and saddened by it all. Still, he was glad to even have them in the first place. He'd remembered seeing some of them before, probably had his own copies at one point—most likely he had thrown them out when he was steeped in hurt and bitterness over Jenny leaving him.

A few of the others he had never seen before. He felt like he owed Ducky and Abby for taking their little sneaky photos when they did, grateful to have at least a few pictures of him and Jen together.

"Jennifer was a wonderful woman," Ducky stated, looking towards the photos that Jethro still had his hand on.

Jethro merely nodded in response, drinking some more tea.

"I know you probably don't want to talk about it, about her," Ducky stated, cautiously watching Jethro. "You've never been a person who is particularly fond of conversation, especially if it could involve anything even bordering emotional."

Jethro said nothing, feeling there was no point when everything Ducky had said was true.

"I find words and conversation to be quite therapeutic myself, and while talking about Jennifer and relaying stories about her to people like Abigail and Mr. Palmer gives me some of that release, it isn't the same as someone who knew her as long as I did. You and I experienced many of the same moments with her, witnessed a whole other side of her than just 'the Director'. What I'm trying to say," Ducky paused, "is that I would very much like to talk about Jennifer with you, and reminisce about memories."

Jethro looked up at Ducky.

"I may deal with death everyday, but it doesn't make losing a friend any less difficult," Ducky said a little more hoarsely.

Jethro rubbed a hand across his forehead, feeling cornered and conflicted. He felt almost guilty that Ducky even felt the need to ask permission just to talk about something with him. On the other hand, he understood why, because the thought of reminiscing and talking about Jen felt painful right now. Not to mention, his head was still aching from all the damn bourbon he'd consumed the night before.

On the other hand, he had nothing better to do, and Ducky's company had been comforting and relaxing so far. Ducky was his friend—one whose needs came before Jethro's own as far as he was concerned.

"You don't need my permission. Go ahead, Duck, reminisce away," Jethro said, not able to hold back a smile when Ducky beamed at him.

* * *

Over the next hour, Jethro found himself not only responding to Ducky's stories, but chipping in with his own. Good memories were shared between them, Jethro finding himself laughing and smiling more than he had in months. By the time Ducky had left his house, he had even found himself roped into going to Ducky's house for dinner next week with Abby, McGee, and Palmer.

That night had been the first in two months that he had actually enjoyed a full and restful night of sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Just as a vague time reference, this chapter occurs sometime during Season 7. This chapter is also much less angsty and depressing than the other two, and in fact was quite enjoyable for me to write. So if your heart needs a little healing after those other two, maybe this one will help a little bit._

* * *

The meeting had started less than three minutes ago and Jethro Gibbs was already wanting to stab himself with the nearest sharp object.

Mandatory Sexual Harassment meetings were always the worst.

His entire team and a small assortment of other NCIS workers were all together in one of the small conference rooms. He was standing awkwardly against a wall, trying to avoid eye contact with everyone but still keep an eye on his team.

He glanced over at Ziva, who was already trying to bug DiNozzo by poking him in the thigh. He shook his head a little, knowing he should have made sure they weren't sitting anywhere near each other. He should have known better, considering the sexual harassment meeting three years ago—when they caused a scene because Ziva _licked_ Tony's _neck_.

It was a stark reminder of a couple of sexual harassment meetings in the past...ones that involved a certain agent he used to work with. The ex-agent who had been right beside him during the licking situation. The ex-agent who kept glancing at him awkwardly during that entire meeting because their past together definitely did not fall into the "green light" category.

He looked to his side, wishing suddenly that Director Jenny Shepard was sitting beside him again—no matter how many awkward or challenging glances she shot his way. He couldn't deny that she had always made those meetings more entertaining in a way. The only sexual harassment meetings he actually remembered were ones that had involved Jenny—except for the first one he had attended with Mike Franks, but he chose to forget he remembered that one.

He smirked, remembering the one he and Jenny had been required to attend after they had gotten back from the surveillance part of their Paris op—right after they had become more than just "partners"—

* * *

" _Jen_ ," Jethro growled, smacking her hand away for the fifth time.

She wouldn't stop trying to rub his thigh, and he just wanted her to keep her hands to herself. As if sexual harassment meetings weren't bad enough, he didn't need his new, hot, redheaded lover touching him on top of it. All it was doing was making his mind go elsewhere, making him want to get out of the damn meeting as soon as possible and pin her up against a wall.

He cursed under his breath, trying to concentrate on the paper in front of him.

"Something wrong?" She whispered mischievously.

He just shot her a glare in response before looking back down at his paper.

They had all been handed this ridiculous little test, in which it listed various examples or situations. They were supposed to to decide which ones were examples of "appropriate" behavior, by either circling the "Yes" or the "No" next to them.

The answers were so obvious he was pretty sure even the stupidest criminals he knew could ace it. He wondered why they were all wasting their precious time on this when they could be out there catching people responsible for things so much worse than these examples.

He felt her hand on his thigh again, and this time she moved it daringly high—reminding him of just why he hadn't actually managed to finish the simple test yet.

"Quit distractin' me," he muttered, grabbing her hand and moving it over to herself.

"I'm bored," she complained quietly.

"Not my problem," he responded.

He felt her lean in closer to him, and suddenly felt her hot breath on his ear.

"And this test is just reminding me of what I'd rather be _doing_ instead," she whispered in his ear, sending tingling sensations shooting through his body.

He let out a pained groan and circled another response on the test.

The last time he had been in one of these meetings with Jenny she had also been completely distracting. She was just his probie at the time, and nothing inappropriate had occurred between them—yet. She had just distracted him then by constantly complaining, making witty and suggestive remarks under her breath, and poking him.

In other words, exactly what she had been doing this entire meeting as well, except that now she was even more bold. Her distractions then had been more amusing and somewhat annoying—now they were just plain sinful and torturous.

He circled the second to last answer, and nearly jumped up out of his chair when her hand suddenly drifted right into the middle of his lap.

He grabbed her hand and squeezed the pressure point between her thumb and index finger in retaliation, eliciting a quiet gasp of pain from her.

He was glad they were in the back in the room where less people were.

"You're no fun," she chided, rubbing her hand before smacking him in the arm.

He smirked and circled the last answer, putting his pen down.

He glanced over at her, watching as she closed her eyes and relaxed in her chair. He looked around to make sure no one was paying attention to them.

He reached his hand out and pressed it on the inside of her thigh, making her tense visibly, before he moved his hand a little higher underneath her skirt.

She sucked in her breath and grabbed his hand, pushing it away back towards him.

"Thought ya wanted me to be 'fun'," he drawled, shooting her a triumphant look.

This time she was the one responding with a glare.

He decided he wasn't done with his revenge yet, and reached his hand out again and moved it behind her. He found the top of her skirt and slid his hand down it, pressing his hand against her butt.

She flinched and reached out and squeezed his elbow hard, making him withdraw his hand. She stood up, grabbed their papers, and marched to the front of the room where the instructor was sitting. He watched her hand the papers over and talk quietly to the instructor. She walked back to where Jethro was and looked at him, indicating with a jerk of her head that she wanted him to follow her. He looked around warily and got up.

As soon as they walked out of the room and the door was closed behind them, she grabbed his hand and dragged him behind her as she walked.

"We're not supposed to leave those meetings early," he pointed out, not wanting to get lectured by Morrow later.

"I told the instructor we had a case come up and it couldn't wait," she explained.

He lifted his eyebrows at her back.

"We don't—"

"I know that," she snapped, interrupting him and smacking the elevator button.

"Then why—?"

"Because," she said, pulling him into the elevator when the doors opened, "those meetings are pointless, boring, and tedious. I have something better in mind."

The doors closed around them and the elevator began to whir, and Jenny reached out and flipped the switch, causing the light to go off as the elevator halted. He felt a little self-satisfied that she was now executing one of his trademark moves.

She reached up and grabbed his face, pulling it down to hers and kissing him hungrily.

He pulled his face away from hers and she began to suck on his neck instead.

"Geez, Jen, you really get that hot and bothered in there?" He asked, looking down at her smugly.

"You're the one who could barely take my hand on your thigh," she said as she shucked his suit jacket off.

"You're the one lyin' in order to drag me in here. And you say men have no self control," he teased, watching her pull his belt off.

"Are you really trying to sabotage what I'm offering right now, Jethro?" She asked him, giving him a pointed look. "Or are you going to shut up and kiss me?"

Her sultry voice practically invaded his senses, and he swallowed. He pressed his lips to her neck and pulled her closer.

"Think this would fall under the 'no' category," he quipped, slipping a hand up her shirt.

"Just make me scream 'yes' and I don't think it will be a problem, _boss_ ," she purred, making him feel like he was going to loose all self control right then and there.

* * *

" _Boss_."

"Jen," he mumbled.

" _Boss_ , wake up."

"Jen?" Jethro Gibbs questioned tiredly, opening his eyes.

He realized with a start he had fallen asleep, remembering suddenly that he had been in a meeting. He looked around him, people were bustling noisily out of the room, and DiNozzo was kneeling beside him.

He remembered he had been thinking about old memories during the meeting, and then ended up sitting down on the floor against the wall because he had gotten tired of standing. He must have drifted off when he was in memory lane.

"Meeting is over," DiNozzo said, giving him a concerned look.

Normally he would expect DiNozzo to tease him about falling asleep, hold it over him—instead he was just giving him this anxious look.

He felt a little embarrassed, remembering suddenly that he had said Jenny's name when he woke up. He hoped DiNozzo wouldn't be stupid enough to point it out, that he would just act like he hadn't heard.

DiNozzo stood up and offered his hand, and Jethro grudgingly took it.

"I'll take that as consent," DiNozzo said as he helped pull him up.

"What?" Jethro questioned, feeling irritated suddenly.

DiNozzo smirked at him.

"You know, I offered my hand and you took it, so I'm taking that as consent. Wouldn't want my boss reporting me for any 'red light behavior'," DiNozzo teased.

Jethro couldn't help but smile, remembering why DiNozzo had always been such a likable, pain in the ass all these years. He had always had a very similar sense of humor to the fiery woman Jethro had trained so many years ago, before she had become the responsible and serious "Director".

He smacked DiNozzo on the back of the head, lighter than usual.

"Come on, DiNozzo," he said, walking towards the door. "You better have some leads on our case by the time I come back from getting coffee," he said threateningly.

DiNozzo yelped, rushing out past him, and Jethro chuckled to himself.

When he made it back to the bullpen, fresh cup of coffee in hand, he peered over at his team. DiNozzo, Ziva, McGee, Abby, and Palmer were all laughing about something, apparently joking around. He looked up to the catwalk, where Ducky was standing next to an amused looking Vance, animatedly telling the Director a story.

Jethro shook his head and smiled, deciding that no matter how many changes had occurred during his 19 years at NCIS, there were always colleagues—friends—to be grateful for. He knew from his years of experience that it wasn't something to take for granted, because they could easily be gone the next day.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: This chapter is a tag to episodes "Enemies Foreign" (8x8) and "Enemies Domestic" (8x9). Some of the dialogue is taken from those episodes._

 _This one was hard to write for some reason. I rewrote it differently a couple of times because it just felt convoluted._

* * *

Jethro Gibbs got home and sat down on the couch. He covered his face with one of his hands and took a deep breath, feeling relieved that everything was finally over. The last few days had been almost extreme—too much had gone down in such a short time.

What started out with a pickpocket incident ended up spiraling into terrorism and assassination attempts. He had dealt with Ziva's father, Leon had nearly been killed, and now his old 'friend' Riley McCallister was dead.

He put his hand in his pocket and fished out the evidence bag, pulling his knife out of it and flicking it open. He stared at it, noticing that there were still a couple tiny flecks of blood where the base of the knife met the sheath.

He had to work hard the last few days to not get distracted by thoughts of her, because his full attention had been needed on everything else. It had been difficult, because she had actually been brought up a few times over the last few days. It had also been unexpected just how much of their past would end up being involved in this mess.

It felt like Jenny had barely been mentioned since her death—like her time and achievements with NCIS had no longer mattered. She had been gone for two and half years, and the emotions he had buried since then had been slowly rising to the surface at every mention and thought of her.

Leon was now doing well and on the mend in the hospital. The whole McCallister mess was being dealt with by the higher ups—being buried quietly. Eli David and the other Mossad operatives were probably almost back to Israel by now.

Jethro was finally home and able to be alone with his thoughts, able to process everything and try to get some rest.

He thought about when he had first run into Eli this week, when he had asked Eli why he was in DC.

 _"Loyalty. I was summoned. Vance's review of the international case files, and his request for contributions from every NCIS director,"_ Eli had responded.

That was the first instance this week in which Jenny had surfaced to his mind.

 _"Not every director,"_ Jethro had replied immediately, sticking up for her memory.

 _"No,"_ Eli acknowledged, shaking his head sadly. _"Not Jenny Shepard."_

Her name being said out loud was enough to make the room feel suffocating in that moment. It felt like it had been so long since he had heard.

 _"She was truly responsible for bringing our organizations together,_ a _nd for bringing my daughter into your life,"_ Eli said.

It was true, Jenny was responsible for placing Ziva on his team—for giving him one of the best agents he had ever had. It would always be something he wished he had shown more gratitude to Jenny for while she was alive.

The next moment he had found Jenny in his mind was when they had reached the safe house after not being able to get in touch with Hadar. It was immediately apparent there had been an explosion, and the first thing he saw was Leon, who was obviously injured on the ground. He turned him over to find an injury to his abdomen which was slowly seeping with blood.

 _"Come on, Leon, stay with me,"_ he had said, putting pressure on Leon's wound.

In that moment he had felt like his mind was almost screaming. The last time the Director was bleeding out on the ground was two and a half years ago—and that Director hadn't made it out alive.

Luckily, Leon's injuries were not as instantly life threatening as Jenny's had been. He was able to make it to the hospital and get surgery, whereas Jenny had been so severely injured she had bled out within a couple of minutes.

After Leon had been rushed into surgery, Jethro had struggled to put his mind back on focus with the case and come up with what to do next. He had lost many people in combat and in the line of duty, he had dealt with horrible injuries before—but the reminder of Jenny's death, her final brutal moments, what she had died for—it was nearly shell shocking.

Later on, when he went to visit Leon in the hospital, he had ended up giving him his knife—the knife he currently held in his hands. He had a few knives, but this one in particular was special to him.

It was the knife Jenny had given to him as a birthday present, back in '99.

 _"Here, I got you something," Jenny said, giving him a swift kiss on the cheek._

 _Jethro raised his eyebrows at her._

 _"Thought the way you woke me up this mornin' was my gift," he quipped._

 _"Consider it an added bonus," she replied smugly, handing him a leather box._

 _She snuggled up to his side on the couch, resting her head on his shoulder as he flipped the box open._

 _His eyes widened at the sight of a very impressive looking knife laying inside._

 _"I know how much 'Rule Nine' means to you," she said as he picked it up._

 _It seemed to be a good quality knife—sturdy, sleek, and balanced. Half of the handle was black, the other half brown. He flicked it open, admiring the mesmerizing black and silver striped blade._

 _"Is is okay? There were so many different kinds, I wasn't really sure...but the salesman assured me that this one was really—"_

 _"It's perfect, Jen," he said gratefully, interrupting her nervous chatter._

 _"Are you sure?" She asked as he put the gift down. "I mean, if you want a different one I can—"_

 _Jethro grabbed her face in his hands and pulled her lips to his, giving her a long and appreciative kiss._

 _"I'm sure," he murmured against her lips, pulling back and smiling at her._

 _"You're probably just saying that because of this morning," she teased, smirking at him._

 _"Guess I'll just have to show you how much it means to me," he growled playfully, pressing her back against the couch and laying on top of her, attacking her neck with his lips._

 _She giggled and began swatting his shoulder._

 _He pulled back from his attack and looked into her bright and cheerful green eyes, caressing her cheek with his hand as he admired her._

 _"Thank you, Jen," he said gently._

 _She smiled at him and pulled his face back down to hers, kissing him passionately._

Jethro smiled, the good memories making him feel nostalgic. He flipped the knife back into its sheath, glaring at the thought of McCallister.

When he had Whitney Sharp in interrogation and they discussed the Russian—it turned out that the Russian in question was Anatoly Zukov...the man Jethro had personally taken out in '99. The revelation had been almost mind blowing.

 _"You think, what, he came back to clean up after himself?"_ Sharp had asked him.

 _"No_ _,"_ Jethro responded, shaking his head. _"_ _No, he's long gone."_

He remembered feeling almost dizzy in that moment.

 _"You sure?"_ She questioned.

 _"Yes, I'm positive_ _,_ _"_ he confirmed—flashes of Europe, Jenny, and Zukov flinging through his brain.

McCallister had been the one who had Morrow send Jethro, Jenny, and Decker on the undercover op to take out Zukov, Svetlana, and the other target.

After all this time, all these years later, it turned out it was just McCallister trying to cover his tracks.

Jethro grit his teeth.

In the end, McCallister was the bastard who was partially—if not entirely—responsible for Jenny's death in that godforsaken diner. If they hadn't have gone on that stupid op in the first place, Jenny wouldn't have died when she did.

Jethro felt a sense of satisfaction over the fact that his knife, the one Jenny had given him, had been the one to take McCallister out. Leon got his revenge, and in a way, Jenny did too.

He put the knife down on the coffee table and put his head in his hands, taking another deep breath.

Thoughts of Jenny always brought regret, because he wished he had tried so much harder with her. He wished he had taken advantage of all the opportunities he could have had with her during her last few years of life. There were just so many things he wished he had done differently, things he wished he could take back, things he should have said to her.

He stood up and wandered to the basement, where he eyed the boxes sitting on his shelf. He grabbed the unmarked one and took it back upstairs with him, placing it on the coffee table by the knife.

Inside were the photographs Ducky had given him, a few souvenirs from Europe, and another item that he gently picked up and looked at.

Her reading glasses.

He smirked at the ridiculous looking things, shaking his head a little.

He had always felt a little foolish when he had to borrow them, because they were so... _girly_. Small, red, and peppered with all the little sparkly things. They had always looked good on her—they matched her hair, and her lips.

He let out a sigh and slid the glasses on his face, picking up the stack of pictures and looking through them again.

He hadn't touched anything in this box for almost two years. Even though it was painful to go through, it felt good to be reminded. After all, he might as well when she was already on his mind—before he went back to ignoring it all.

He couldn't deny that it felt damn good to have her glasses on his face again, almost comforting.

Because he and Mike had burned down her house, the majority of her possessions had been incinerated. The only belongings of hers left were the ones in her office and the ones she had taken with her to California. She had no family left behind to care about those few belongings, though. The only people she left behind were friends and colleagues.

The framed photo of her father had been buried with her. He knew Ziva and Abby had each taken a pair of heels from her suitcase, something he knew Jenny would be pleased with.

When he had found her glasses case in her suitcase, it was something he couldn't just ignore. He didn't know why he had suddenly felt so attached to them, why he felt the need to take them, but he covertly pocketed them nonetheless. He had also taken a moment to go up to her office when Leon wasn't around and snatched the fancy decanter of bourbon she had up there.

He put the pictures down and looked in the box, looking over the souvenirs. Among the souvenirs was an absurd beret she had purchased for him as a joke in Marseilles. He could remember she put it on his head one night as a joke, laughing at how he looked, which just ended up leading to a rather playful turn of events in bed.

He was glad he still had some of this stuff, grateful for the photos Ducky had given him. It was after Ducky had left that day that he had gone through his house, looking through all sorts of boxes seeing if he had kept anything from Europe, worrying he had thrown everything out after Jenny had left him. Apparently, he had tossed some of the souvenirs and pictures in a random box that he found among the mass pile of boxes upstairs, where a lot of Shannon and Kelly's stuff were.

He plopped the beret on top of his head and picked up a large souvenir photo of him and Jenny. They were standing in front of some cheesy looking, fake Eiffel tower background. They both looked so young, carefree, and content.

It would never cease to amaze him how stupid and stubborn they both had been—why they had just let it all go when they were clearly so happy together.

He sighed and put the photo down, exhaustion pulling at him, and laid down on the couch. He left the glasses on, and tipped the beret down so it covered his face. He closed his eyes, drifting off as memories of Jen lulled him to sleep.

* * *

 _The part where I have him keeping Jenny's reading glasses was completely inspired/borrowed from Jibbs Gal 1's story "One Year Later". I remember that part of her story making me just sob, because literally the thought of him keeping those reading glasses was so touching and fitting all at the same time. Basically, him keeping her glasses is canon in my eyes now, so of course I had to include that somewhere in this._


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: This is a tag to "Life Before His Eyes" (9x14). I know there are already probably a thousand Jibbs related tags to this episode, but it is a monumental episode for Gibbs and includes a quick Jenny moment, so how could I just ignore it in this series? Like many other Jibbs fans, the complete lack of a conversation with Jenny really frustrated me with that episode. It made no sense that Jethro talks to McCallister of all people for so long, but doesn't even have a heart to heart with Jenny. Here is my attempt to fix that, even though a ton of other people have already done so. *shrugs*_

* * *

Jethro Gibbs watched as Pedro Hernandez walked out of the diner, his mind spinning from all the things he had been shown so far.

"I shot the son of a bitch, Mike," he admitted, feeling his emotions weigh down on him as he chose his next words. He took a breath.

"But when I got home, my house was empty, and my girls were still gone," he said hoarsely.

Mike was silent for a second.

"Didn't have to be," Mike said quietly.

"What?" Jethro questioned.

"Yer house. Didn't have to be empty, least, not forever," Mike stated, looking at him.

Jethro snorted.

"What, you gonna to tell me I should have stayed with Diane, or Rebecca, or Stephanie? Kept one of 'em around just so my house wouldn't be empty?" Jethro said sarcastically, laughing at the thought.

Mike snorted next, and chuckled to himself.

"Nah, you an' I both know those were mistakes to begin with, probie. Never should have gotten together with any of 'em in the first place. Would have saved yourself a whole lotta trouble."

"Not gonna argue with you there," Jethro replied, shaking his head and smiling. "What are you sayin' then, Mike?"

Mike gave him a mysterious half smile, an almost mischievous glint flickering through his eyes.

"Come on, got another place to show ya," Mike said, getting up from the stool and heading to the diner door.

Jethro sighed, not sure if he wanted to follow Mike out the diner again. Last time, Mike had basically told him that if he had spotted Ari and Kate had lived, she and Tony would have gotten together and had a family. And apparently that somehow would have caused Abby and McGee to end up together as well. He couldn't wrap his head around it all.

"Come on, you gotta get back to reality sooner or later, we don't got all day," Mike called from the door.

Jethro gave in and got up, heading out the door behind Mike.

Rather than suddenly appearing in the bullpen again, he and Mike were standing on a porch by a street, in front of a large wooden door.

Jethro took in his surroundings, and his eyes widened as realization hit him.

"Jenny," he muttered, feeling his breath catch.

"Didn't think you'd ever see this house again, did ya?" Mike said, laughing a little. "You an' me saw to that four years ago."

Jethro stood there, unsure of his emotions, trying to understand.

"Aren't ya gonna go in, probie?" Mike asked, gesturing towards the door.

Jethro took a breath and reached for the handle, opening the door slowly. He glanced behind him to look at Mike, but Mike was suddenly nowhere to be found. He swallowed and opened the door wider, peering in hesitantly.

Everything looked the same as it had last time he had visited, before he and Mike burned it all down. This time it was daylight, though. The sunshine and warmth streaming into the house reminded him of the happy spring days he and Jenny had spent here 13 years ago.

The study door was mostly closed, just slightly ajar, and he instinctively walked forward to it. He placed his fingertips on the door and nudged it open, feeling an almost suffocating suspense.

As the door swung open his eyes met the woman leaning against the desk, and his breath caught again.

"Hello, Jethro," she greeted, smiling at him.

"Jen," he said hoarsely, emotions welling up in him.

She looked like she did the last time they had been at her house together. The night when she had asked him to stay and he had said no...a night he'd been regretting since the minute he had gone out that door.

"You haven't changed a bit," he commented, taking in all the features he had missed so much the last four years.

"We're supposed to skip that bit of bull, remember?" She said, a smirk dancing across her face.

"You haven't, though" he insisted, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Well, I am dead," she said with a shrug, smiling sadly at him. "After all, no point in lying to each other now, Jethro."

The way she said his name, her eyes, her hair, her facial expressions...damn, it had been so long.

"At this point you've had plenty of time to reflect about us, about me, ever since I died," she said, breaking the silence. "I'm sure you can draw some conclusions about why Mike took you here." She wandered over to where her alcohol was.

He thought hard for a minute, thinking about everything else he had been shown and why, thinking about what Mike had said.

"He said my house didn't have to empty forever...then he took me here, to you. Seems like he's sayin' I could've been with you," he acknowledged, all the thoughts and regrets he had felt over the last four years surfacing in his mind.

She turned and faced him, lifting up a semi-full crystal glass to him as if she was toasting him.

"More or less," she confirmed. She came over to him, a glass in each hand, and held one out to him.

He reached out and took it, a tingling sensation shooting through him as his fingers brushed hers briefly.

She sat down in the armchair beside the chess table and motioned for him to sit in the other one by the fireplace.

He walked over to it and did so, placing his glass of bourbon on the little coffee table beside it. He rubbed his hands together nervously and leaned forward, staring at her intently.

"What's on your mind?" She asked, swirling the liquid around in her glass. "Much as I'd like to sit here all day with you, unfortunately we don't have that kind of time," she said regretfully.

"Why not? Why couldn't I just choose to stay here, with you?" He asked. "My mom told me I get to decide how things will play out."

Jenny looked at him thoughtfully for a moment.

"Not in this realm," she answered. "You get to decide how things will play out when you go back...the decisions you make. This place, the things you've seen, the people you've talked to...it's all about showing you how your choices can affect everything else. It's a temporary stop, it isn't a place where you can just stay."

"So what are you supposed to show me?" He asked.

"There are many things I could show you. There were so many choices you made with our relationship that affected it one way or another, it's up to you which aspect of it you want to examine," she replied.

"What if you hadn't left me?" He questioned.

"You seem to be forgetting that this isn't about what other peoples choices did to affect you, it's about what your own choices did to affect you and the others around you," she said, putting her glass down and examining him.

He smiled, finally realizing what she meant. He thought about all the questions he had asked himself over the years, trying to decide which ones he was more curious about.

"So, you mean things like; what if I had told you I loved you back, when we were in Paris. What if I'd been more honest with you about my family. What if I'd gone after you. What if I'd insisted on pursuin' you instead of Hollis. What if I hadn't said 'no' the night you asked me to stay. What if I'd gone to Decker's funeral with you." He stated, rattling off the list of questions that he hadn't stopped thinking about since she died.

"Now you're getting the hang of it," she said, smiling. "There really are so many moments where things could have been different, where one choice just keeps leading to other choices. It's up to us what we decide, which door we open. If we keep closing the door to every opportunity, sooner or later we'll find ourselves with only one door that we no longer have any choice on."

He thought about what she said, rubbing a hand across his chin.

"You're sayin' I kept closin' all the doors on you until I no longer had a choice," he concluded.

"We both did, it was a game we played well with each other," she replied. "When I realized time was running out in the end, I finally realized how stupid and stubborn we both had been...how many illogical choices I had made concerning you. Then, after I was gone, you realized it too. We always had bad timing with each other," she said, gazing at him. "We played that damn game for so long that we both ended up leaving ourselves with only one door, and all we could do was accept it."

"I've been regretting all those decisions a lot the past several years, Jen. I'm sorry, I should have done things differently," he admitted.

"I know you have. I'm sorry too," she responded quietly.

They both sat in heavy silence for a minute.

"What if I'd gone after you?" He finally asked.

"We would have ended up together," she simply said, smiling at him. "I was hurting after I left you, a _lot_. Had you come after me, I would have taken you back in a heartbeat, because I missed you. My decision to leave was something I never stopped regretting."

"Ended up together?" He asked, wanting further clarification.

She nodded her head, and suddenly he found himself being pulled into a memory like scene—just like when he was shown what would have happened if Kate had lived, or when Mike had shown him what he would have become if he hadn't shot Hernandez.

The scene showed him and a very alive, rosy cheeked Jenny, sitting in his backyard on a porch swing together. It shifted over to the direction they were looking. There was a fun looking swing set in the yard, as well as a small sandbox. There were two little boys sitting in the sandbox. One was bigger than the other, and had a head of brown hair, cut and styled similarly to Jethro's. The younger one had slightly shaggier hair, and it was the same vibrant red as Jenny's.

The older one lifted up a little pail of sand and dumped it on the younger ones head before he laughed and ran away, apparently deciding to go on the swing set and go down the slide. The younger one shook his head, laughing madly while his chubby little hand patted through his sand ridden hair.

"This one is going to have a hard time keeping up with those two," he heard Jenny say.

It shifted back over to him and Jenny, and he realized there was a small little bundle in Jenny's arms. She was holding a small baby wrapped in a light, soft green blanket, and Jethro had his hand resting lightly on the baby, stroking it's head with his finger.

"I'll protect her," Jethro responded, leaning down and kissing the baby on the head.

"She's only a week old and you're already playing favorites," Jenny replied, smirking at him.

"If anyone around here is my favorite, it's you," he responded, wrapping an arm around Jenny and kissing her on the temple.

She smiled and shifted a little, visibly wincing as she did so.

"I would hope so, because my body has gone through a _lot_ to provide you with these children that you so desperately wanted," she retorted, a small groan of pain escaping her as she got more comfortable.

He snorted.

"Hey now, I was good with the two, you're the one who was 'desperate' to have a third," he replied.

"It's a curse of being female. You forget how much work they are, even if the other ones are driving you to near insanity. All your hormone ridden brain can think of is how cute babies are and for some reason you feel the strange need to have one...even though you know they don't stay that way for long," she explained defensively. "Besides, I don't recall you exactly objecting at all when it came to your part in conceiving her."

"Yeah, well," he said with a chuckle, shrugging his shoulders. "I guess she is pretty darn cute. Guess that makes up for the fact she won't let us get any sleep at night," he said, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

"I used to think the all day and night stakeouts we used to do in Europe were bad," she commented, yawning. "I was completely naive back then, I had no idea..."

"From what I remember, we took all the moments we could have slept back then and spent it doing _other_ things," he pointed out.

"Yeah, well," she mimicked, quirking an eyebrow at him. She looked back down at the baby and yawned again.

"You know, not that I didn't fully enjoy those moments back then...but if I could somehow take them back and cash them in for some sleep now I would definitely do it," she said seriously.

"Uh huh, sure," he replied, not sounding convinced.

The baby stirred in her sleep, her face scrunching up, looking like she was about to cry. Jenny rocked her in her arms and let the baby grab her finger, while Jethro soothingly rubbed her little stomach. The baby stopped stirring and peacefully continued to sleep again, both parents admiring her.

"It's all worth it," Jenny said softly. "The lack of sleep, the never ending chaos that comes with having two little boys running around the house. The fact that you and I have spent five grueling years constantly trying to juggle our work schedules so that we can still be decent parents...I wouldn't have it any other way," she mused.

He looked at her and smiled.

"Me neither," he said, tilting her head towards him, giving her a lingering kiss on the lips.

"I love you," she mumbled against his lips.

"I love you more, Jen" he said, kissing her again.

"Ewww," a childish voice protested. "That's gross."

They broke apart from their kiss and looked down at the little boy that was now standing in front of them—the older brown haired one.

"You won't think it's gross someday, Josh," Jethro told the boy.

"Uh-uh," the boy replied, shaking his head solemnly and giving Jethro a very Jenny looking glare. "It's gross."

"You wouldn't be here if it weren't for kissin'," Jethro informed him.

Jenny kicked Jethro in the shin.

"He's five, Jethro," she admonished.

"Yeah, so he won't understand," he replied defensively.

"Joshua, are you and Jackson ready to go inside?" Jenny asked, changing the subject.

"Nooo," Joshua whined, protesting and shaking his head.

"Okay, sweetheart, go finish playing then," Jenny requested.

Joshua tugged on the leg of Jethro's pants.

"Daddy, come play with us," he pleaded.

"I'll be in there in a couple of minutes," Jethro responded, ruffling Joshua's hair.

"Yay!" Joshua said happily before running off towards Jackson. "Daddy's gonna play with us, Jack!" He yelled excitedly.

Jenny laughed and shook her head, yawning again.

"I'm glad you got some really decent paternity leave, I wouldn't be able to cope otherwise," Jenny said, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Why don't you go inside and get some rest? I can play with the boys, and you could put little Jane Anne in her crib," he offered, sounding concerned.

"She probably won't wake up to be fed for another hour..." she contemplated. "I think I'll take you up on that."

"Good, you need some rest, Jen. You've been through a lot this week," he said, squeezing her hand gently before he stood up.

She shifted the baby in her arms and winced as she moved. He helped her get up, making sure she was steady before he took away his support.

"Thank you," she said gratefully. "Really, for everything."

He stepped up close to her and gently ran his finger across Jane's head, smiling at the baby. He looked up at Jenny and cupped her cheek with his hand and kissed her, before pulling back and smiling at her.

"No, thank you," he whispered to her. "Have a good nap," he said, turning around to head over to the boys.

Jenny smiled at him as he walked away.

"He's a great guy, I think we should keep him around forever," Jenny said softly to the sleeping baby as she headed into the house.

"You better watch out, Josh and Jack, the tickle monster is comin' for ya," Jethro growled playfully, making both the boys scream with delight and run away from him.

As Jethro scooped up giggling little Jackson in his arms, the scene disappeared, and Jethro found himself sitting with dead Jenny in her study again.

It took him a moment to adjust to his surroundings again, shocked to realize his face was wet. He wiped his eyes and cleared his throat, looking over to Jenny. He felt like he'd just woken up from a really good dream, one that he wished wasn't over, one that he wished was reality.

"That's what would have...if I'd gone after..." he stammered hoarsely, feeling shell shocked.

"Perhaps, or at least, something similar to that. It's just a glimpse of one moment of what could have been. We won't really know what _exactly_ would have happened, because it never actually happened. We both made different choices," she explained, a sad look on her face.

"If I'd known what...I should have..." he trailed off, feeling frustrated at himself, desperately wishing he could turn back the clock and do things differently. Like he had said to his mom earlier, " _Wish I'd known all this before...learned from it."_

"It's okay, Jethro, don—"

"No, it's not," he interjected, trying to calm himself. "I could have had you, and those kids. I could be happier, things would have been perfect."

"No, not perfect. That was just one happy and perfect seeming moment. There still would have been a lot of hard things," she said.

"Yeah? Like what? 'Cause it all seems like it would have been pretty damn worth it," he snapped, feeling like he had made all the wrong choices.

"I would have still died," she said softly.

He was about to question why when he suddenly remembered.

"Your illness..." he muttered, his agitation melting away as his eyes met hers.

She nodded, smiling sadly again.

"No matter what choices you or I made about us, the one definite outcome was that I would die," she said straightforwardly, shrugging her shoulders.

He just looked at her, suddenly wondering what would have happened with all of that, giving her a questioning look. As if she could read his mind she answered him.

"Just like your dad, you would have found yourself in the position of caring for a sick, slowly dying wife. It would have been hell for both of us. You would have had to bury your wife for the second time in your life, while also being a single parent to three grieving children while you juggled with your own grief and a full time job. It would have been a brutal road, and it would have taken you ages to pick up the pieces. The kids and the team would have been your saving grace from all the pain."

The thought of all that made him feel almost sick. It seemed unjust to him that no matter what, Jenny was doomed to die. He violently wished he could have ended up with her, wished that flash of what could have been had actually happened. At the same time, he felt a conflicting, almost selfish feeling of relief that it hadn't—because it involved so much more pain and grief. Then again, it also involved so much happiness.

He rubbed his head, the conflicted thoughts making his head hurt. She laughed and he looked up, letting the image of her laughing again sink in, trying to appreciate the sight and sound.

"You're overthinking it all," she said. "This isn't some case you can find an answer or solution to, it is what it is, there is no changing anything." She shook her her head at him, smiling. "I should've known you would over analyze it all, I should've given you less to chew."

He snorted.

"I remember you doing your fair share of over analyzing," he pointed out.

"I had to over analyze everything when it came to you. You were a difficult, stubborn, pain in my ass," she shot back.

He chuckled, not denying it, and looked into her green eyes.

"It's time to drink your bourbon and say goodnight, Gracie," she said, a soft smile on her face.

"You're not gonna ask me to stay again? 'Cause this time I've learned my lesson, I'd say yes," he responded.

"I would if I could," she responded earnestly, "but as I already told you, this is just a temporary stop."

She got up from her chair and he followed her lead. She walked out of the study and into the hall, and he followed her to her front door.

"I believe you have one more pit stop before you go back, and trust me, you'll have a harder time wanting to leave then," she said, turning to him as they reached the door.

He walked closer to her and rested his hand on the side of her face, brushing his thumb across her cheek.

"I missed you, Jen," he said, feeling his emotions rise, not wanting to say goodbye.

She put her hand over his on her cheek and closed her eyes for a moment.

"I missed you too," she said, opening her eyes again, tears forming in the corners.

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, breathing her in again for a moment, enjoying her smell and the warmth of her skin, brushing his hand through her hair. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed comfortingly.

When they pulled apart, he took in how radiant and peaceful she looked.

"Goodbye, Jethro," she said, opening the door for him.

"Goodbye, Jen," he replied, letting his stare linger at her hair, eyes, and lips one last time before he turned and walked out the door.

"We'll always have Paris," he heard her say distantly as his surroundings turned into the diner again.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: This is a short little tag to "Shabbat Shalom" (10x11). I love that when the team is going through those boxes of undercover stuff, we actually get to see two things that are for sure associated with Jenny in some way. DiNozzo is wearing the soul patch, wig, glasses, and beanie cap that he wore on an undercover op for Jenny. And then later on, DiNozzo pulls out that Hawaiian shirt he was wearing in California when Jenny died (that part breaks my heart). I'm focusing on another item in this that I'd like to think was also associated with Jenny._

* * *

Jethro Gibbs was walking towards the bullpen, his ears open as usual in case he caught DiNozzo saying anything stupid so that he could have an excuse to headslap him.

"Well, I make time outside of work—it's a good habit I picked up from my time in Mossad," he heard Ziva saying. "Never sweat where you eat."

"Wrong bodily function," McGee informed her.

"Yeah, but it's the right idea," Gibbs chipped in as he walked to his desk, alerting his team to his presence. "Grab your gear. Dead body in the Potomac," he announced, grabbing his things.

As he came around the corner of his desk he glanced at the pile of plastic containers that his team had been looking through—the ones he knew contained old clothing and props that NCIS agents could use for undercover missions.

He paused when he saw the tip of a belt protruding from the side of the top box, recognizing it almost immediately. He reached out and grabbed it, memories from the past being brought to the surface as he held it.

"Getting a new belt, boss?" DiNozzo questioned.

"Nah, it's an old belt," he replied as he surveyed it. He resumed walking again, and he wondered briefly if the belt still had that smell, so he brought it up to his nose and breathed it in. He swore he could still detect it, and he shook his head just slightly at the amusing memory.

"Drug bust, '99," he mused as he walked past his team, letting his smile break out after he passed them and they couldn't see his face anymore.

He wondered briefly if he should put it in the box at home with the rest of the reminders, but decided he would start wearing it in her memory. He pressed the elevator button and brought the belt up to his nose again, letting that subtle scent take him back.

* * *

Jethro was feeling out of place in the way he was dressed, but he was trying to play his part as best he could. He was dressed in a torn flannel shirt, faded baggy jeans, a nice belt to hold the jeans up, worn sneakers, and a cap that was turned backwards on his head.

He thought the backwards cap was stupid, but his partner insisted on it, and her opinion mattered more than he wanted to admit. She was also the one who had chosen a belt and put it on him when no one else was looking, even though he could have done it himself. He still thought she looked a little too proud of herself when she did it, knowing she was being slow and handsy, completely torturing him.

He was wired up and pretending to be a fill in worker for this warehouse, where NCIS knew drugs were being hidden inside containers and shipped to Navy ships overseas. Jethro had been in here working, listening, and observing for almost two hours.

One of the workers they had caught and had in interrogation the other day, "Scar" (though his real name was Steve), had flipped so that he could get a deal. Jethro was sent undercover into the warehouse, and assured the whole group of men that he had sent by Scar, as they were not aware Scar had even been caught. It took a lot of convincing while they all held guns at him, but after using many key code words and phrases that Scar had told him to use, as well as a phone call from Scar himself, they grudgingly let him in and sent him to work. Scar had insisted to them that they needed extra help, since they had a ton of shipping to do today and he 'would be late'.

It had been a tedious process to get this far—Jethro's team had first started trying to track this ages ago, but they never had any solid leads or evidence. Now, it was finally going to be over soon, and Jethro was glad he happened to be back in the States to help finish it all up.

They had enough to implicate the group from Scar alone, but they still needed solid proof and evidence to back everything up, and this would seal the deal and ensure nothing could slip through the cracks.

Hence, why Jethro, or "Kip" as he was being called, was here helping pack and load containers. So far he hadn't actually seen or handled any drugs himself, just packed regular containers. He needed actual verbal and physical evidence before the actual bust could occur.

"All right, Kip," a buff man said as he approached him. "I want you to get this packed and loaded." The man uncovered a box that had bags of what Jethro guessed was cocaine.

"Looks like good quality stuff," Jethro commented, trying to spur some verbal confirmation.

"Damn right, pure cocaine. Don't even think about trying any funny business. Scar said you were the real deal, but I've seen plenty of snakes in the grass. Every ounce of this has been accounted for. Any of it happens to go missing or doesn't meet standards, both you and Scar are dead men," he threatened.

Jethro had to hold in a satisfied grin, knowing any second the mass of NCIS teams would be storming in.

"I believe you, man, I'm not here to cause trouble. I just owed Scar a favor," Jethro responded.

"NCIS!" Was suddenly yelled, agents flooding in through all of the possible entrances and exits. They quickly surrounded the whole group in the warehouse, guns drawn. "Put your hands where we can see them!"

The warehouse erupted into chaos. The perps were yelling in anger and confusion, not able to run, while the agents all kept yelling out commands as they surrounded them.

"Son of a bitch, you and Scar set us up!" The buff man next to Jethro shouted at him, looking murderous. His hand went to the back of his pants where Jethro knew he was carrying.

"Gun!" A couple of the agents yelled.

The second the man raised his weapon towards Jethro, shots rang out and he fell to the floor.

"Hands where we can see them!" The agents repeated.

Jethro raised his hands and looked around. All the workers were raising their hands too, glancing at the body on the ground nervously.

A portion of the mass of agents began to approach the suspects to pat them down and cuff them. Two agents came up to the body by Jethro, one picking up the gun, while the other one with the familiar ponytail of long, red hair checked the pulse.

"Dead," Jenny Shepard confirmed, looking up at Jethro and locking eyes with him.

She had the proudest look on her face, leaving him with no doubt that she was the one who had taken the man down.

He couldn't help but feel proud, and tried to convey that to her in his smile. Europe had fine tuned her reflexes and aim. She was definitely ready for the last part of their Europe mission, their target elimination, which they would be sent to start completions on in a couple of weeks.

Jenny got up and gave him a sly smile as she began to pat him down too, moving her hands far slower than an agent normally would. Just like with the belt, she seemed to be taking advantage of the fact that everyone else was distracted with other tasks.

"Gonna cuff me too?" He asked her suggestively.

"Wouldn't be the first time," she joked, her slow hands starting to get to him. Her hands retracted, and he heard the clinking of her cuffs. "We may as well," she said as she pulled his hands behind his back, "help make your undercover more believable," she reasoned.

He felt her put the cuffs on him, not making them too tight or uncomfortable. She squeezed one of his hands briefly, letting her fingers brush against his as she moved away from him. She moved to face him, giving him a smirk. He was glad he was physically restrained, it kept him from pulling her forward and kissing her in front of everyone.

"If you Europe lovebirds are done playing grab-ass, feel free to start helping us seize evidence or transport suspects," Chris Pacci said as he walked to them, shaking his head at their behavior.

"We're partners, not lovebirds," Jenny tried to lie, not able to hide the blush on her face.

"No use in lying, Jenny," Chris said, looking amused. "The minute Morrow sent you guys packing off undercover together, we all knew you would both finally cave. I was honestly surprised you guys lasted as long as you did."

Jenny opened her mouth, probably to argue, but Pacci kept talking.

"Before you try to lie again, I just want you to know I saw you both kissing and leaving together in the parking garage a few days ago. I mean, I don't care, not like I'm going to report you or anything. Honestly, if you guys are happy, I'm happy," Pacci said, giving them an amused smile. "Now take the cuffs off Gibbs and let's get to work."

* * *

As soon as the scene had been processed—all the evidence bagged and tagged, the perps in holding—and agents were assigned their next tasks, Jethro scanned the area to see if his partner was still around.

As soon as he spotted her ponytail among the sea of black NCIS jackets and hats he made his way over to her. They were so used to being alone together and cozy in Europe that is was hard for him to resist touching her.

"Nice take-down earlier, Jen," he muttered in her ear as he snuck up behind her.

Her head bobbed just slightly in surprise, and she turned to face him.

It was taking all his willpower to not stand closer to her and grab her hips.

"What have I told you about sneaking up on me?" She asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Come on, you love it," he said quietly, smirking at her.

She looked around, seeming to make sure no one else was paying any attention to them.

"Maybe when we're alone, but not when we're working," she replied.

"I miss bein' undercover and bein' able to kiss ya in public," he said, eyeing her appreciatively.

"Jethro," she hissed, glancing around them.

"They're all busy gettin' ready to leave the scene, no one is payin' any attention to us," he reasoned.

"You know, I never realized how incredibly needy you are until Europe," she sassed. "Who knew under that thick, gruff, marine exterior you were a sappy romantic."

"Am not," he protested, glaring at her.

"Uh huh, sure, whatever helps you sleep at night," she said sarcastically.

"Not doin' much sleepin' when you're around," he quipped, smirking at her.

Her eyes went wide as she glanced wildly around them again.

"Can you seriously not contain yourself?" She snapped.

"Not with you," he said, amused by how paranoid she was acting considering her pat down and handcuff stunt earlier.

She glared at him before she turned around to finish putting together a box of evidence and carrying it to one of the trucks. He admired the view for a second before he went to confirm with one of the other lead agents if his team could go. When he was given the green light, he went to find Jenny again.

"We can go back to the office, Shepard," he called to her.

"What about Keller and Hanson?" She asked as she walked up to him.

"They left earlier to help another team transport the perps. Just us," he said, not able to contain a smile at the thought of being alone with her again.

"All right then," she responded, a similar smile to his own spreading across her face.

They walked in silence to the car, Gibbs feeling glad that their temporary teammates were not with them. Before the Europe assignment, he had been leading a team consisting of Jenny, William Decker, and Stan Burley. Then he, Jenny, and Decker were all sent to Europe, and Burley ended up being transferred as an Agent Afloat. Keller and Hanson had been assigned to sub on their team while he and Jenny were in the US for a couple of weeks. Decker was still in Europe getting final preparations ready.

"I'm guessing you won't let me drive?" Jenny implored.

"Not a chance," he acknowledged, walking to drivers side.

"How am I supposed to get better at driving if you never let me drive?" She asked.

"Don't wanna die while ya try, drive on your own time," he retorted.

"This coming from you? Jethro, you drive like maniac, I'm pretty sure you've nearly killed us at least sixty times," she scoffed, glaring at him.

He shrugged and smirked at her, opening his door and getting in.

"You just think you drive better because you're a man, you old chauvinist," she mumbled as she put her seat belt on.

"Nah, I'm just older than you, got more experience," he replied, starting the engine and pulling out.

When they were on the road he put his right hand out and interlinked his fingers in hers, letting their hands rest on her thigh. They looked at each other for a second and both smiled, enjoying the relaxed atmosphere.

* * *

"Why are we at your house?" Jenny asked as Jethro pulled into his driveway.

"Gotta change my clothes, can't stand bein' in in these anymore," he explained, gesturing with distaste at his undercover outfit.

"I think it's kind of sexy, in a rogue-ish sort of way," she teased, winking at him and smirking.

He snorted and shook his head at her, getting out of the car. They both walked inside together, and Jethro rested his hand at her lower back, letting it slide just slightly lower. When they got inside he jogged up the stairs to his room and grabbed a fresh polo and a pair of jeans. When he turned away from his closet he saw Jenny leaning against the doorway watching him, a familiar mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Thought you might need help," she said, walking towards him provocatively.

"Oh?" He questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"Mm hmm," she insisted, putting her hands on his chest, looking up at him and quirking her head to the side innocently.

He swallowed, feeling all his self control go out the window as he looked into her devious eyes.

"We really should be at work, helpin' out," he tried to reason, putting his hands on her hips.

"FBI is probably already butting in and taking over. Probably won't matter if we're a little late, could say we got a flat tire or something," she justified, starting to unbutton the torn flannel shirt.

He muttered in agreement, leaning his head down and grazing her neck with his lips.

"You know what I think was 'kind of sexy'?" He mumbled into her neck.

"Mm?" She moaned in response.

Seein' you take that guy down earlier. You're a damn good shot now, Jen," he complimented, looking at her.

"Figured you might be worth saving, you have your uses sometimes," she teased, pulling his mouth insistently to hers and kissing him for a minute.

She shucked the shirt off his shoulders, and then pulled his white undershirt up and threw it off of him too, letting her hands wander across his bare chest. He let his hands and lips roam where he wanted, touching and nipping at the sensitive spots he knew drove her crazy.

Their kissing and movements became increasingly passionate, and after a few minutes he felt her tugging at his belt and pulling it out of the loops, not being anywhere near as slow as she had been putting it on him earlier. She threw it on the ground and moaned into his mouth as his hands continued to roam and tease.

He tugged her shirt off and spun her around, pushing her against the nightstand. He heard something fall to the floor, but didn't spare any attention to it, his mind rather preoccupied with other things.

What he did spare some attention to was the alarming crunch that sounded a minute later, both of them breaking apart from their deep kiss to look down, a heavy scent invading his nostrils.

"Damn it," Jenny swore, pushing him away a little as she bent down to inspect the mess.

It appeared a glass bottle of Jenny's perfume had been what fell—cushioned by the soft carpet, but then brutally broken by Jenny's heel when she tread across it. Perfume was soaking into the carpet now, seeping around the nice leather belt that Jenny had tossed away earlier.

Jenny began to pick up the pieces of glass while he ran into the bathroom and grabbed a couple of towels.

What started as a hurried and passionate tryst had turned into a hurried and mundane chore as they both found themselves spraying cleaning solution on the carpet, scrubbing out the light stains the perfume was leaving, and trying soak it all up at the same time. Jenny eventually opened the window, trying to air the room out.

"That was an eighty dollar bottle of perfume," Jenny lamented after they finished, sighing loudly.

He opened his mouth, about to question why anyone in their right mind would spend so much on something like perfume, but closed his mouth when he realized it would probably lead to an argument, which he really didn't want to deal with right now.

He picked up the forgotten belt on the floor and held it to his nostrils briefly, pulling it away almost instantly when the strong scent hit him. The leather had absorbed quite a bit of the perfume, and he decided he should probably put it outside and let it air out for a few days before he returned it to the NCIS undercover clothes box.

He eyed Jenny, feeling a little put out that their original plans in the bedroom had been interrupted.

"We should probably get back to the office, before Director Morrow wonders what happened to us," she said, giving him an apologetic look.

"Yeah, I guess," he mumbled, sighing to himself.

He threw on the clothes he had picked out earlier to change into and put the undercover ones in a bag, carrying it with him to the front door. When they got outside he draped the smelly belt over the porch railing, glaring at it.

"Any chance of pickin' up where we left off when the work day is over?" He asked, looking at her hopefully.

She eyed him up and down, a smirk spreading on her face.

"Don't know, something about your rebellious, teenage gangster look really did it for me," she teased. "Who knew a torn flannel shirt, faded jeans, and ratty sneakers could be such a turn on," she mocked.

"Still got the belt if that does anythin' for ya," he said with a chuckle, pulling her into his side as they walked.

"It is a nice belt, I guess it'll have to do," she replied, smiling up at him. "Think we might need to get together at my place, though, yours needs some time to air out."

"Not gonna argue with that," he stated, wondering in the back of his mind if he would have to get his carpet replaced.

"This is your last chance to kiss me until we meet at my place later tonight. I'm not risking anyone else catching us in the parking garage," she informed him solemnly.

He took her up on the offer, kissing her against the car, enjoying the way her hands rested on his neck and played with the edges of his hair.

* * *

"Boss?" McGee said nervously.

Gibbs looked around, snapping out of the memories. He and his team were in the elevator, and he'd been absentmindedly breathing the belt in. He looked at McGee to acknowledge him.

"We were just asking if you wanted to drive..." McGee spoke up, trailing off uncertainly.

Gibbs nodded, silently giving his answer as he looked back down at the belt in his hands.

"You okay, boss?" DiNozzo asked, sounding wary.

The word that floated to his mind was "no", because suddenly all he wanted to do was go home to his basement. He was glad to have the memories, glad to be reminded—at the same time, memories of her always carried the same pang of sadness and regrets that he hadn't been able to brush off all these years.

"Yeah," he grunted in response.

"Must have been some drug bust," DiNozzo commented inquisitively.

Gibbs thought about how Jenny had bragged about 'saving him' for weeks afterwards, and how she had kept requesting 'favors' from him with the excuse that he 'owed her'. Granted, the favors were usually just as beneficial to him as they were to her, so he didn't complain much.

"Sure was," he responded quietly, feeling a smile tug at his lips.

* * *

 _I had scheduled for myself to publish this two weeks ago, but I kept getting distracted by other things. Sorry about that. For anyone interested, I published a new Jibbs video on my YouTube channel today. The link to my channel is on my profile._

 _Thank you to my followers, readers, and reviewers. You're all awesome!_


	7. Chapter 7

_Tag to "Kill Chain" (11x12). A decent portion of dialogue is taken from the episode._

 _This was actually the first thing I wrote in this series, that I originally intended to be a one-shot. I added more to it, changed some aspects of it, and polished it up as best I could._

* * *

Gibbs, Vance, and Delilah were in MTAC discussing Benham Parsa when the phone in MTAC rang.

"Yes?" Vance answered it, listening for a second. "It's McGee," he announced, holding the phone out to Gibbs.

"Hey, did you find the DoD investigator?" Gibbs questioned McGee as soon as he grabbed the phone.

"Not exactly. Before I could, she found us," McGee responded warily.

Gibbs paused, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

"I'll be right out," he replied, hanging up and turning on his heel to head out of MTAC.

"Gibbs?" Vance questioned.

"DoD investigator came to us," Gibbs informed him.

Gibbs swung the MTAC door open and walked out, Vance right on his heels. McGee was running up the last few steps of the catwalk stairs to meet them, looking out of breath.

"Boss, I had no idea," he rushed out apologetically, looking nervous. "If I did, I would've warned you."

"Warned me about what?" Gibbs asked, feeling baffled.

"About me," a female voice answered.

Gibbs peeked over McGee's shoulder to the source of the voice, where a woman was standing in the middle of the stairs looking at them.

"Hey, Jethro," she greeted.

Gibbs eyes narrowed, hardly believing his sight. He felt shock spread through him, and felt like he was suddenly in some weird dream. Out of all the people in the world, he never thought he'd see Hollis Mann standing before him again after so many years. Last he knew she had retired in Hawaii...so why the hell was she suddenly here claiming to be a DoD investigator?

Gibbs looked over to the Director beside him, completely blindsided to see Vance. He had lost his grip on reality for a second, expecting to see _her_. Anytime Hollis had been around before, _she_ had always been there—usually watching him and Hollis from the catwalk when they were in the bullpen, failing to mask her jealousy. It didn't make sense for Hollis to be here and not have that particular Director breathing down his neck.

"It's not another one of your ex-wives, is it?" Vance questioned, pulling Gibbs back to reality.

Gibbs gave a small smirk at the comment, looking back over to Hollis who was making her way up the last few steps that separated them all.

"Close enough," he responded, feeling the same sort of guilt and dread that usually accompanied an encounter with one of his ex-wives.

If he hadn't been hesitant in committing to her, she definitely would have been wife number five, and she definitely would have been ex-wive number four. He knew they wouldn't have lasted, she would have just been a repeat of the same patterns he had gone through with his other ex-wives.

Like them, she was a person he liked, a person who could temporarily take his mind off of other things. Like them, she was someone he didn't actually love—someone he had essentially just used at the time without really thinking about the consequences. He was silently grateful he hadn't let their relationship progress as far as marriage, since it would've just been the same disaster as the others.

There were only two women he had ever been in a physical relationship with that he could actually say he loved and truly mean it. The two women who seemed to always haunt the recesses of his heart and mind.

* * *

Jethro was working on his current wood project in his basement, trying to relax. It had been a _long_ day, plagued by endless reminders and memories of the past. He felt drained, and he wished his mind could just take a break. The case had been hard, he could feel in his gut that there was going to be a lot more going on with it, and having Hollis around on top of it all was mentally exhausting.

When he, Hollis, and Vance had all talked in Vance's office after she showed up, all he could think about was her. Not Hollis, but Jen. The last time he and Hollis had been in that office, it had been Jenny dealing with them—not Vance. Jenny, who had been smirking in her chair and teasing Jethro, finding the whole ex-wife Stephanie situation to be highly amusing. Her behavior at the time had been annoying, far too smug—but looking back now it made him smile. He missed it.

 _"Her last stand was to protect you."_

Mike Franks words echoed through his head again, for probably the millionth time since he had first heard them.

Since that day, he had lost Mike too—another casualty in his life that felt so unneeded, wasteful, and depressing. The man who had investigated his wife and daughters death, let him get his revenge, and trained him. The man who had been there with Jenny at the end, saved Jethro from Svetlana, and made sure to be there for him after the whole ordeal. One of the few men who could say he had seen Jethro Gibbs cry—more than once.

Ziva wasn't around anymore either, having left the team a few months ago and living in Israel again. Ziva, who had felt like a daughter to him by that point. Ziva, who would always be attached to Jenny in his mind because of their history. Ziva, who had made the team feel complete—like they were their own little family. He hoped she could find what she was looking for, accomplish what she needed to accomplish, and find her place. He just wanted her to be happy.

 _"I learned from the best, Jethro. I want Ziva to, as well."_

Jenny's words to him from so long ago made him hope that he had done all he could to train Ziva. She was a good agent, and he hoped she had left armed with all the knowledge he could have ever taught her. He hoped he had trained her as well as Mike Franks had trained him.

He didn't like the idea of not training his agents well, because if they failed it was all on him for not teaching them what they needed to know. Jenny's death was on him, because he should've known that she still hadn't been taught to accept yet, because he hadn't made sure she had taken her target out successfully.

At least Ziva was still alive.

He paused his steady carving motions for a minute and took a breath, debating if he should go hunt down a bottle of bourbon.

Hollis had tried to get him to talk earlier, when they were in the car keeping an eye on a suspects van. She wanted to discuss them and their past. She seemed to think he was silently brooding because he hadn't gotten over them, hadn't gotten over her leaving. What she didn't know is that he didn't feel the need to talk about it, because he had been over it the minute she left. It wasn't a relationship he had spent any time mourning over.

He wasn't silently brooding over their past or over her leaving, he was silently brooding because her presence was a painful reminder of the other woman he should have been pursuing instead of her—the woman he had really wanted at the time. The woman who had left him heartbroken not just once, but twice.

Hollis was married now, which made him feel less guilty, because at least she had found happiness. He knew he had been highly unfair to her, because she had never had a chance in the first place. He had wasted her time, and she deserved to be happy. He was a damn fool for ever getting together with her or any of his ex-wives in the first place.

He carved into the wood again, a wood shaving curling up and dropping onto the counter, resembling the number six.

Hollis had mentioned that it had been six years since she had left. When Jenny had come on as Director, it had also been six years since she had left him. In about four more months, it would mark six years since he had last seen Jenny again—only this time she wasn't coming back.

He heard the sound of his front door open, and listened to the tapping sound that meant someone in high heels was headed towards the basement. He thought about how Jen's heels were the ones that used to make their way to his basement, way back in the day, and even a few times when she was Director. He found himself bitterly wishing they were her heels again, knowing he would never again see her emerge onto his stairs, smirk at him, and then smoothly walk down with complete flirty confidence.

He knew who it was. He knew the minute he heard that door open that it was Hollis, probably wanting to try and discuss things again.

He didn't understand women and their need to discuss things to death. It just wasn't needed, especially when it was about things that happened in the past.

"The world as we know it is falling apart all around us—" Hollis said as she emerged onto the basement stairs and started to make her way down them. He clenched his jaw and continued to concentrate on the wood in front of him. "—and you're down here."

He blew the bits of wood shavings off of his work, ignoring her.

"I'm not at all surprised," she said.

He heard the sound of her placing some bags down somewhere behind him.

"I brought dinner," she announced.

"I already ate," he informed her, a brief moment of silence taking over.

"In that case...dessert." She came over to him and placed a bottle right by his arm, grabbing his attention. "Small batch. _Very_ smooth," she explained.

He looked at the bottle and couldn't help but smile, feeling pleased that some good bourbon was here.

"Thank you," he responded sincerely, truly feeling grateful for the expensive and kind gesture.

Silence engulfed them again and he heard her take in a breath, picking up on the slight frustration in it. He started to mentally prepare himself for whatever she was here for.

"Its been a long time since I've been down in this basement," she mused. "I miss the boat. Kind of pulled the whole room together."

He put his tools down and took off his protective glasses, wanting to just get whatever it was out of the way and skip the tedious small talk. He turned on his stool to face her.

"What are you doing?" He questioned.

"I'm trying to make peace," she immediately responded.

"We're good," he said, not understanding why she thought things were so bad between them.

"Good? Really? Because it kind of feels like the exact opposite," she retorted sarcastically, her hands moving as she spoke.

He furrowed his eyebrows and then smirked, thinking she was reading too much into everything.

"What do you want from me, Hollis?" He asked.

"I want to apologize," she snapped.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"There's no need," he replied truthfully.

"Oh, stop that," she said with a frustrated sigh, turning away from him. "God, I forgot how infuriating you could be."

He couldn't help but laugh.

"Was that the apology?" He chuckled.

"No," she said a little more loudly, looking amused and facing him again. "No, this is. I..." she broke off, giving a frustrated sigh. "I liked you, okay? I _really_ liked you. And what happened between us, it was good." He gave a slight nod as he listened. "It was great, even."

She paused for a second, and he silently thought about how he didn't quite feel the same way. Good? Sure. Great? No.

"But there was a wall that wasn't coming down," she said, making him shift a little, knowing exactly where this was headed. "Your past. And I could see what was gonna happen...how bad it was gonna get." He narrowed his eyes, listening and trying to understand. "Me, trying to...pull things from you, and you not ready to let go," she said, nodding her head a little. "So I made an executive decision," she took a breath, "I left..." —he suddenly remembered another woman telling him something similar at her Georgetown house six years ago— "...so that...we could remember the good," she finished.

He shook his head a little, a smile tugging at his lips, feeling amused that all of this still bothered her so much.

"You should've just asked," he responded, once again wondering why women made such big deals about everything. Deep down he knew that her asking wouldn't have made a difference, because he would've just pushed her away—he never had been good at those kinds of conversations, especially not back then.

She looked at him for a moment, before looking down at the floor and giving a small sigh. He had a feeling she knew the same thing, that her asking wouldn't have resulted in a better outcome. She shook her head and looked at him.

"I'm sorry, Jethro," she whispered, emotion evident in her voice.

He gave a slight nod of his head, not really sure what to say. He honestly thought he should probably be the one apologizing, but he had a rule against that—and honestly he didn't see the point in them discussing a past that was dead a long time ago.

She turned around and began to walk towards the stairs, and the other woman in that Georgetown house came back into his mind.

 _"Once upon a time I would've asked you to stay, and I wouldn't have taken 'no' for an answer."_

 _"No."_

 _"What happened, Jethro?"_

 _"You made a choice."_

 _"I had to do what was best for me. I still do."_

And then like the bastard he was he had just walked away, turning his back on the opportunity that he didn't know would be the very last.

He bitterly regretted that moment, wishing he hadn't brushed her off and left. Hollis and her had both made the choice to leave him. With Hollis, it was the right call—they wouldn't have lasted, and it would've been a painful ordeal for her. He didn't believe Jenny had made the right call, and he hadn't been smart enough to do what he should have to fix it.

It wasn't right for him to let Hollis walk away, just like he had gone out Jenny's door, because he knew if anything happened to her he would regret leaving things the way they were. He owed her some kind of closure, and it wasn't like there were any expectations between them—she was happily married. She had brought good bourbon, and he decided they may as well have a drink as old friends.

"Hey, hey..." he called out to her, stopping her from leaving as she turned to face him again. He shifted on his stool and grabbed a mason jar, tipping the screws out of it and blowing the dust out, placing it beside the other one he had in front of him. He poured bourbon into both of them, and she took the hint and came over. She moved a little wooden bench he had made over to where he was and sat beside him.

He lifted his jar to her and smiled, trying to hold back a laugh at how ridiculous this entire situation was. He certainly hadn't expected his day to go like this at all. She smirked at his gesture and shook her head in dismay before lifting her jar to her lips, he in turn doing the same as he watched her.

* * *

Almost an hour had gone by, and they had been having a relaxed time catching up, talking, and reminiscing while they sipped their drinks. It was mostly her talking, while he listened, but he had a more enjoyable time than he would have thought.

He had asked about her husband, and she had talked all about him, his job, and how they met. The happiness in her expression and voice when she talked about her husband made him feel exceptionally glad that she had left him, and even a little envious of how content she was. They had also discussed work, his team, her time in Hawaii, and had been laughing about funny memories they remembered.

"—and then there was that one day, oh," she groaned, shaking her head and chuckling, "when we were dealing with that ex-wife of yours, and you had to face me, her, and Director Shepard—" she broke off suddenly, the comfortable air in the room evaporating almost instantly. He knew he had winced the second she said her name, and he quickly guarded his expression again, distracting himself with a swig from his drink.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly.

He let out a frustrated sigh and opened his mouth, about to remind her of his rule. He had already let her first apology slide tonight, after all.

"I know what you're going to say, and I don't care. I always thought it was a stupid rule," she chided, rolling her eyes at him. "I'm just expressing my sympathy."

"For what?" He asked gruffly, glaring at her for insulting his rule.

"I'm sorry about Director Shepard. When I first heard it on the news all those years ago..." she trailed off and glanced down, looking sad. "I just...I knew it must have been painful for you," she said softly, looking back up at him.

He looked away and narrowed his eyes, trying to shove his emotions away.

"She was just my boss. Was a long time ago," he brushed off with a shrug, looking back at her when she gave a frustrated sigh.

"Don't give me that," she snapped, glaring at him. "I know there was something between the two of you before I ever came into the picture, I know she was more than just your 'boss'. I'm not stupid, Jethro," she said, giving him a pointed look, making him feel a little nervous and look down at the jar in his hands.

"Even if she hadn't pretty much told me, the looks you two were always giving each other...it was pretty obvious," she continued. "And she would always glare at me, at us...and you always seemed to be trying to annoy her and push her buttons. No one in their right minds would treat their boss like that all the time, not even _you_ ," she poked his knee, and he glared at her. "An ex-lover, though, someone you used to be really familiar with..."

She stopped talking and shook her head, chuckling a little.

"I always felt so insecure around her," she admitted softly. "She was intelligent and pretty...always dressed nicely. She seemed to always just understand you, so much more than I ever did. You two just had this way of communicating, like a silent understanding, and you both clearly were still into each other."

He merely looked at her, not bothering to say anything, feeling like no response was really required.

"When I left you, I felt like she had won, because I just knew you'd probably go running back to her, or her to you. I hope you both got to enjoy your time together before the accident," she commented, smiling at him sympathetically.

He lifted his eyebrows and looked up, shifting in his seat a little. He looked down into his glass, squinting at it, feeling pained.

"Didn't," he grunted.

"What?"

"Didn't...I didn't go back to her, didn't 'enjoy time together'," he replied stiffly, annoyed at the hoarseness in his voice.

There was an uncomfortable silence for a few seconds.

"I just assumed...I...I thought..." she trailed off, sounding nervous. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to reopen old wounds, I shouldn't have even brought her—"

"It's fine," he sighed tiredly. "Kinda nice to hear her mentioned," he admitted, wondering if the alcohol was getting to him.

It was silent again for a minute, both debating what to say.

"I should've treated you better, Hollis," he confessed, looking at her. "'M glad you found a guy who loves you as much as you love him, you deserve it."

She looked stunned for a few seconds, but quickly recuperated and put her hand on his, giving it a gentle squeeze before she withdrew it again.

"Thank you," she said, and he just gave a slight nod as he looked away. They both took another sip from their drinks, the air surrounding them feeling at ease again.

"Remember that time when," she started, her eyes lighting up with amusement.

* * *

After Hollis had gone home, Jethro put away his tools and the bourbon and then made his way up the basement stairs, cursing his old knees. He threw the sheets on his couch and flopped onto it, spreading out and getting comfortable.

The entire conversation with Hollis had actually been enjoyable. He felt better for somewhat apologizing, and was glad she seemed to think things were settled now. He felt bad that she had been carrying around so much guilt all these years when he should be the one feeling guilty.

It had also been nice to just listen to someone and talk a little, because it took his mind off the case, off of the bastard Benham Parsa.

The trips down memory lane had reminded him of so many things he had forgotten, and he couldn't help but miss the way NCIS had been back then...his team, and the Director.

He closed his eyes and tried to remember the image of Jenny on the catwalk again, standing and watching him and his team as they operated. The way she would smirk or raise an eyebrow when he looked up at her. The times when Hollis was around and she would gaze down with that annoyed and jealous expression of hers.

He smiled. He knew he should push away the nostalgia and get some rest before the continued hunt for Parsa tomorrow, but it wasn't often he let memories of Jen invade his thoughts. Shannon and Kelly were always on the back of his mind, it was something he couldn't help. With Jen, Mike, Kate, his mom, and all the others he had lost in his life, he usually just pushed away any thoughts or memories. It was too painful and distracting to always have so many dead people in the back of his mind.

He thought about the time Mike had first seen Jenny and snorted, practically able to hear Mike's voice again.

 _"Ooh-rah, Gunny."_


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Tag to "Check" (12x11). A ton of dialogue from the episode is used, which I normally hate to read, but it really couldn't be helped with this chapter. This had pivotal Jenny mention moments and reactions from Gibbs that I wanted to put into words._

* * *

"There's something about this one, isn't there?" Palmer asked. "It's familiar somehow."

Gibbs looked at the body on the autopsy table, feeling the same. Something just wasn't right about this, the entire last few days felt off. His gut was churning.

"I had the same feeling when I saw the murder weapon," Ducky commented.

"You've got the murder weapon?" Gibbs asked in surprise, looking at Ducky.

"Maybe," Palmer answered as Ducky pointed in his direction, drawing Gibbs attention to the young man. "Paramedics just dropped this off. A trainee accidentally grabbed it during the resuscitation attempt," Palmer said, holding up a scalpel, "thought it was part of their field kit."

Gibbs suddenly started to feel a familiar and sinister vibe, the wheels in his head turning.

"It matches the wound, both in shape and size," Ducky said while Palmer held the end of the scalpel towards the wound to demonstrate.

Instantly Gibbs was taken back—that rainy, cold, and dreadful night...his friend and mentor, Mike Franks, laying in the middle of the road. The way the rain poured on his dying friend...the sound of thunder piercing the skies...the handle of that scalpel protruding from Mike's chest.

"Mike," Gibbs said quietly, feeling completely winded.

"Mike Franks. He was wounded in the exact same manner," Ducky said in realization.

"About the same age, too," Palmer noted.

"Also, he was left to die in the middle of the street," Ducky pointed out while Gibbs silently stared him, hardly daring to talk.

"That's a lot of coincidences," Palmer said.

Gibbs looked over to him, wanting to point out Rule 39, but not trusting his emotions enough to speak.

"No, it's not," Abby Sciuto spoke up as she entered the Autopsy room, drawing the attention of the three men.

"Jimmy had told me that something felt familiar about this victim," she said gesturing towards the body, and then pointing towards herself with her next words. "And I've had the same nagging feeling about the fake shootout at the diner." She held up her index fingers and walked towards the computer screens off to Gibbs' side, pulling something up.

"Look familiar?" She asked, the picture of the crime scene sketch up on the left screen.

"It's our crime scene sketch," Gibbs replied.

"Yes. But not from yesterday," she said seriously.

He looked over at her for an explanation.

"This..." she said as she pointed to the screen, "is from the diner where Director Shepard was killed."

He instantly felt even more winded, the nagging feeling in his gut suddenly making sense.

"This..." Abby continued, pulling up another very similar crime scene sketch on the right screen, "is our latest crime sketch." She merged the two sketches together on one screen, both of them fitting over each other almost perfectly.

He could hardly breathe, could hardly comprehend why all of this was happening. Abby began talking, her voice distant as she began reciting what had gone down in the latest crime scene sketch, taking him back to when he had walked through that diner—when Leon had pretty much recited the same exact thing.

 _"Our male victims surrounded our female victim,"_ Abby's faraway voice said.

Jenny's face flashed through his mind.

 _"She was here."_

He could see the blood on the floor where she had been...those little yellow markers on the floor, the one that had a note that simply said "Shepard" placed on it. He could remember how sick he had felt when he had seen it...how sick he felt now just thinking about it.

 _"She got off the first shot. Male number one never even fired his weapon. She took on heavy fire after that, one to the shoulder, one to the arm."_

He had never liked imagining what those last minutes of Jenny's life had been like, what it had looked like when those bullets ripped through her small frame.

 _"She kept firing. Took out male number two and male number three. Then she dropped to one knee, fired three more shots, took out male number four. And by then she had lost too much blood."_

He didn't like imagining her lifeless body in a pool of blood on that cold diner floor. He remembered what Mike had told him...how the last thing she had said had been his name...how she had gone unconscious and bled out after that.

His mind started to focus again, coming back to the present as Ducky began to speak.

"Well, that is most certainly not a coincidence," Ducky stated.

"Someone is recreating murders from your past, Gibbs," Abby said as Gibbs took a small breath, feeling suddenly claustrophobic.

"Why?" Palmer asked.

Gibbs gazed at the crime scene sketches, realizing that he couldn't stand to be in this room another damn second. Not in the room where he remembered Jenny's body bag laying on a slab, or where Mike had lain after his death—where currently the crime scene sketch of Jenny's death and the body that had been staged like Mike resided.

He cleared his throat and turned on his heel, brushing past Ducky as he left the room.

"Jethro?" Ducky called out in concern before the Autopsy doors closed behind Gibbs.

He slammed the elevator button, feeling dizzy and nauseous, stepping in and pressing the button to close the doors. He gave the elevator half a second to move before he flipped the switch and surrounded himself in darkness.

He closed his eyes for a minute and took a steadying breath, trying to will the wave of nausea away.

He didn't need all of this on top of everything else. He thought the caffeine restriction was torture, and then he had to deal with Diane and Rebecca which made everything more unpleasant. Now, things had taken a sharp turn towards being much, much worse.

This was some sick game to someone...staging murders to be a just like ones that had brutally affected him.

He leaned against the wall and rubbed his jaw, feeling angry, sad, and confused.

That had been the first time he had seen the crime scene sketch from Jen's murder.

When he had gone down to Autopsy that horrible day...saw that body bag laying on the slab...when he couldn't bring himself to open it—he had made sure to completely avoid looking at any of the crime scene photos and the sketch. Seeing the blood and evidence markers in that diner had been bad enough...he couldn't face looking at actual proof that she was, indeed, gone forever. He had let Leon and his team take care of those aspects, since Leon insisted it was his crime scene anyways.

He took another breath, trying to ready himself to face all of this. He didn't have time to waste now that things had gotten so serious, they needed to get to the bottom of everything before things continued to escalate.

He could feel tears stinging the back of his eyes, his mind heavy on Jenny and Mike, but he kept them back. He slammed his palm against the elevator wall, ready to kill whoever was messing with him like this, and aching for a good cup of coffee.

* * *

Gibbs and his team were all in the bullpen, doing a sitrep.

"Five bodies turn up," Tony said, pulling up the four crime scene photos of the bodies from the other day, "staged to mirror the gunfight that killed Director Shepard in California." Gibbs couldn't help but wince a little hearing her name, as Tony pulled up the crime scene photos from that California diner underneath the other ones.

Gibbs eyes scanned from left to right, his eyes going from the three dead men who she had faced off with, landing on the last picture of her. His breath caught and he had to blink a bit, taking in the photo of Jen laying dead in a pool of her own blood. She had always been pale, but it was nothing compared to the almost white tone of her lifeless skin in the photo.

He remembered that blue shirt, stained in her blood. Remembered when Abby had to process it...when she had held it up and burst into tears, giving him a comforting hug.

His eyebrows furrowed and he blinked a bit again, feeling sick to his stomach again, feeling the sting of threatening tears again.

"Then another body appears," McGee said, pulling up two large photos which mercifully covered the eight small ones, "this time mirroring Mike Franks' murder."

He tilted his head and tried to keep a straight face as he stared at the photos, squinting a little, glad they were of the body downstairs in autopsy and that there wasn't one of Mike on the screen.

"Both were NCIS. Both pivotal figures in your life," Bishop stated.

"Somebody's gaslighting you, boss," Tony said.

"You think?" Gibbs snapped, feeling exhausted and on edge emotionally. "I want to know why," he demanded.

"Uh, no theories yet but we have a few angles on suspects," Bishop replied nervously.

"The record from Director Shepard's murder was sealed," McGee said, Gibbs wincing from the name drop again as he turned his head to listen to him. "Only a small group of people had the details."

* * *

Gibbs walked out of the elevator towards Autopsy—more tired, angry, and sad than he had been earlier.

After the sitrep that morning, he had dealt with Rebecca and her impending idiotic husband in interrogation, then he had gone out into the field with his team and discovered that Diane was being targeted, and then he had met with Diane on that rooftop...and had witnessed her get shot through the head as he held her in his arms.

He had wondered earlier that day how things could possibly get worse, and now he had his answer.

The flashes of Kate that had gone through his mind the moment it had happened were almost paralyzing. He had been driven by pure adrenaline and shock to leave Diane's body there and try to pursue Sergei.

And then it had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed to not cry in the bullpen as that bastard's video message to him played. Sergei was right...he left the clues, Gibbs should have seen it coming...

Now Gibbs stood at the Autopsy doors, watching as Palmer stood on one end of that ominous black body bag, looking defeated.

"But most of all, I don't want to cut open another friend," Palmer said, looking straight at Gibbs.

It was silent for a moment, Gibbs glancing over towards Ducky uncertainly.

"I think I've had my limit," Palmer said shakily, heading over to the computer chair on the other side of the room.

Gibbs walked over to where Ducky was, looking at the body bag that held the body of another woman that he had let down in his life.

"I don't remember the moment when I reached my limit, but I do remember never being the same," Ducky mused. Gibbs looked over at Palmer's back, feeling more empathetic than he had ever felt towards Palmer before.

He could understand the young man's feelings entirely, because he knew how it felt to reach his limit. He had been through so much death so many times, and every time he felt like he had reached a limit—and now he felt like the limit had long been overstepped. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, he wanted to exact the most brutal revenge possible on Sergei—and he also just wanted to give up.

How was he supposed to keep going on with life when so many people he cared about just ended up dead?

He glanced down at the black bag, once again remembering the last time he had faced one that contained the body of a redheaded woman he had been in a relationship with.

"Would you like to see her?" Ducky asked.

Gibbs swallowed and shifted a little, not sure he could do it. He had already seen her die in front of his eyes, but it didn't make seeing her lifeless body—devoid of her snappy attitude and fierce glare—any easier.

Ducky went ahead and opened the body bag anyway, pulling it apart to reveal Diane's ashen face, the bloody gunshot wound right in the middle of her forehead.

He flashed back to that night in his basement, when Diane had stated that he never loved her.

" _But the only woman you'll ever love is Shannon."_

He remembered he had to keep himself from saying, "And Jenny" at that moment. Shannon would always be his first love, but Jenny had been the only woman since to succeed in claiming part of his heart.

" _You were my Shannon, Leroy."_

He felt guilty staring at her body, she had deserved better.

He wondered how the hell he was supposed to tell Fornell, and how Emily was supposed to cope. He knew he would need to be there for them, and one of these nights he would need to let Fornell grieve and drink while he watched over him, let him cry on his shoulder if he needed—just like Mike had done for him many years ago.

He didn't know how he was supposed to forgive himself for letting this happen.

He had failed Diane, just like he had failed Shannon, Kelly, Kate, Jenny, and Mike. He should have been able to prevent all of their deaths, he should have been able to protect them.

He didn't want to see another friend, colleague, or redheaded lover laying in Autopsy _ever_ again.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Tag to "Blast From the Past" (12x16). Originally, I had only planned for 10 chapters of this, but this moment in this episode as well as another later one made me change my plans. It is looking like it may actually be around 12 chapters. The main unfortunate thing is that this will now be off schedule, especially now that I have a full time job and have very little free time._

 _I know last chapter wasn't super Jenny-centric, and I warn right now that there may be another chapter or two that are similar in fashion (though I haven't written them yet, so hey, maybe I'll do something different, I change my mind pretty frequently). Hopefully this chapter will make up for it, it has a couple Jibbs flashbacks._

* * *

Jethro Gibbs stared at the body on Ducky's table, the body of a man who had been using Gibbs old undercover alias; "Leland Robert Spears".

"Do you think this could be connected with one of your old cases?" Ducky asked.

"Anything's possible," Gibbs replied.

"Do you ever miss your undercover days?" Ducky inquired. "The adrenaline rush, the unrelenting fear of suddenly being exposed?"

"The real danger, Duck?" Jethro said, thinking back on his experiences. "Losing focus of what matters, being buried deep undercover for too long."

"Losing focus of what or whom, Jethro? I recall one case when you had no choice but to run off to Prague with a gorgeous redhead," Ducky said with a smirk, chuckling to himself.

Jethro tried to contain a smirk when he realized what Ducky was referring to, completely failing to not smile widely as the memories with that gorgeous redhead zipped through his mind.

"You were clearly forced to go above and beyond," Ducky said with amusement, nodding at Jethro sarcastically.

"Ah, no such thing," Jethro responded wryly, his mind wandering back to those first couple of days in Prague.

* * *

Jethro woke up, feeling a little worn out from traveling. He gave himself a minute to adjust to being awake, blinking away the blurriness in his eyes and rubbing a hand across his face. He tilted his head to the side, watching his lover peacefully slumber beside him, listening to her quiet breathing sounds and watching her shoulders move with each one.

They were both still in their clothes from yesterday, having both just collapsed on the bed and instantly falling asleep when they had reached the little apartment they had been assigned to. After he had healed in Positano, they had been sent back to Paris to finish up some surveillance and give reports, and now they were in Prague, the capital of the Czech Republic. This particular mission wasn't one they had been required to do, but they volunteered anyway—being undercover together as a 'married couple' in Europe was much more entertaining than sitting in the bullpen ignoring their feelings for each other.

Their mission was to keep track of—and potentially take out—a couple of arms dealers involved with the Russian group the agency had their eyes on. This mission had the potential to be really dangerous, and he was hoping it all went smoothly.

They'd both sustained many injuries over the course of their Europe adventures, but the majority had just been bruises, cuts, and minor broken bones. The most life threatening had been when he'd taken a bullet in Positano, and he hoped to God that she came out all of this without a single bullet wound—or worse...

He shook the thoughts from his mind and stared at her.

He almost felt jealous of the pillow she was hugging—they had been so busy the last few days that it felt like ages since he had properly touched her. They had a couple of days to relax, and he was looking forward to just unwinding and spending some time with her.

He scooched closer to her and wrapped an arm around her, nudging her neck with his nose and breathing her in. He began to trail wet kisses along her neck, slipping his hand underneath her shirt and resting it against her waist.

"Jethro," she growled groggily, stirring a little. "I know it's been a while, but I swear if you don't let me sleep in—the next time anyone at NCIS sees you will be when they open your body bag."

He lifted his head in surprise, smirking at her tightly shut eyes.

"Startin' to feel like I'm married again," he quipped, brushing his hand through her hair.

"Good, that means our undercover identities are working out," she replied.

"Other undercover things I'd rather work out," he teased, letting his hand roam over her suggestively.

"Like sleeping, for instance," she shot back, removing his hand from her. "Too bad I won't actually get the benefit of an alimony check if you leave me," she grumbled, trying to get comfortable in the covers again.

He smirked and let his lips go back to her neck, moving his hand back under her shirt.

"I haven't gotten to sleep in for ages," she complained.

"I haven't gotten to make love to a certain beautiful woman in ages," he retorted, doubling his efforts with his lips and hands.

She lay there with her eyes closed, trying to ignore him, but he knew his ministrations were succeeding as she visibly relaxed and tensed at the same time, almost seeming to shiver. She turned her face towards him after a minute, fluttering her eyes open to reveal her dilated pupils, and she started to kiss him languidly.

"Mmm," she moaned quietly as he let one of his hands work beneath her pants.

"You damn well better let me sleep as long as I want after this," she groaned, starting to try and tug his shirt off and kiss him harder at the same time.

He broke away to breathe.

"Don't know why you're complainin', seems like you're pretty into the idea," he gasped as her hand wandered below his naval.

"Because if you'd kept your hands to yourself I'd still be thoroughly enjoying my beauty rest," she replied, giving him a reprimanding slap to the shoulder.

He smiled against her lips, knowing he probably should feel sorry for waking her up, but not really feeling all that guilty. He'd take this over sleep any day of the week.

* * *

"Jen," Jethro whined.

" _Leroy Jethro Gibbs_ , I swear if you don't go stand over there and cooperate I will find several ways to make your life _completely_ miserable," she threatened.

He glared at her, but found himself faced with a terrifying glare from her—one that clearly booked no nonsense—so he grudgingly made his way over to where she wanted while grumbling under his breath.

"Would it help you to smile if I bribed you with a lollipop?" She mocked.

He glared harder, hearing the click sound of the camera.

" 'M not a child, Jen," he protested, making his way back over to her.

"Could've fooled me," she muttered. "You'll regret not having more pictures of our Europe adventure someday."

"Nope. Don't need pictures when I got all the good stuff up here," he said as he tapped his head with his finger.

She snorted.

"That brain of yours isn't as good as you think it is," she retorted, putting the camera away and taking his hand in hers, continuing to walk up the park path.

"Better than yours," he mumbled.

"What was that?" She asked, feigning ignorance.

"Nothin'."

"That's what I thought," she said, smiling at him.

His lip quirked up at her smile and he rolled his eyes good naturedly. He glanced around at their surroundings, intertwining his fingers in hers.

She had drug him out with her today to walk around Petřín Hill, a popular tourist area in Prague that was full of parks. She insisted that they could use the exercise.

Personally, he thought they had gotten plenty of exercise the day before when they had stayed in bed most of the day.

And unfortunately, despite his best efforts, he hadn't been able to convince her to stay in and just enjoy that kind of exercise again.

"Don't see why we had to do this today," he complained as they continued walking uphill, starting to feel a little out of breath.

"We won't have much free time after today. We'll be too busy doing surveillance. Unless our targets happen to tour Petřín Hill, this is probably our only chance," she replied.

"I'd have rather stayed in bed all day with you," he countered, smirking at the look she gave him.

"I'm sure you would have, but we can't just spend two entire days having sex and sleeping," she said, rolling her eyes at him. "This is probably the only time in our lives that we'll be in Prague. You should enjoy what the world has to offer when you can," she mused, turning to look at the view of the city from where they were.

"Already am," he responded, pulling her into him and planting a kiss on her lips.

He felt her smile against his lips and he pulled back a little to look at her, resting his forehead against hers.

"That was smooth," she said huskily, still smiling. "But there are other people around, and I don't want us to be that obnoxious couple that everyone hates."

She tried to pull away from him, but he held onto her.

"Mm, I got an easy fix for that. No other people at the safe house." He shot her a mischievous grin.

"You're impossible," she said with a laugh, smacking his chest lightly. "I'm determined to see as much of Prague as I can today, though, and you will not deter me," she said, pushing against him a little harder and escaping his arms.

He glared at her back as she retreated. He'd never been a fan of touring things and being around other people, especially when he could be doing other more enjoyable things.

She looked behind her shoulder at him and smirked, giving him a knowing look.

"If it makes you feel any better, I'm having a lot more fun with you by my side than I would on my own," she said warmly, slowing to walk by his side and grab his hand in hers again.

He let go of her hand and slipped his arm around her waist instead, keeping her pressed against his side as they walked, not able to help the smile he knew was on his face. He inhaled with his nose deeply, smelling the grass, the interesting smells that seemed to waft from the city, and the subtle fruity hint of Jenny's shampoo. Despite his complaining, he knew he felt the same way, and he was simply glad just to be with her.

"Here," she said suddenly, pulling the camera from out of her purse and shoving it into his hands. "I want you to take a picture of me standing over there with the city in the background."

She wandered over to where she wanted and moved around a bit, seeming to decide where the best place to stand was. He shook his head a little, feeling both baffled and amused, and lifted the camera up, waiting for her to stand still and smile.

"Is this fine?" She asked, standing by a tree and placing her hand against it.

He looked at her, taking in the way her red hair moved at the ends with the slight breeze, and the content look on her face.

"You're perfect, Jen," he replied meaningfully, clicking the camera and capturing the blush that shot through her cheeks and the smile that danced across her face.

* * *

 _If any of my stuff from now on seems either rushed or nonsensical, it's because I have a full time job now and anytime I'm home I'm pretty much constantly exhausted. I'm not giving up though, I love this darn couple too much to call it quits right now._

 _As a side note: I'm really dreading Abby's final episode tomorrow, I know I'm just going to bawl my eyes out. I'm really going to miss her! The season has already been hard enough with whatever real life tension is going on between Pauley Perrette and Mark Harmon, and I'm hoping her final episode ends on at least a semi-positive note (as opposed to her perishing like all the other women on this show...)._


	10. Chapter 10

_Turns out, I changed my mind after all. I decided the chapters I had thought about doing would be too repetitive compared to the other chapters I've done, so this is actually the last chapter of this series. I also am just really pressed for time these days. I had originally planned to release this chapter on the 20th, which is the day this chapter focuses on (the ten year mark), but my job has literally consumed my life and I just didn't have time. I did release three Jenny related gif sets on my tumblr page on the 20th, so at least I did something to commemorate the day (the link to my tumblr is on my ff profile for anyone interested)._

 _I wrote most of this chapter before that wonderful season finale episode. That moment when Gibbs visited Shannon and Kelly's grave made me bawl my eyes out. He got all dressed up and everything, it was so sweet. It was weird to me that I was in the process of writing this chapter (which is a grave visit) when the show ended up doing one as well (meaning this chapter would occur just a few days before that moment in the finale). I guess I'm on a similar wavelength to the writers, haha. Anyways, I'll quit babbling, here we go!_

* * *

Jethro Gibbs walked across the expansive lawns of Arlington National Cemetery, flowers in hand, passing grave after grave as he sought the spot he was looking for. He felt a little fidgety and nervous—graveyards didn't exactly hold any good memories for him.

He found the row he was looking for and walked down, faltering in his step a little as he got closer. He spotted the grave nestled among all the other similar looking ones, the lettering on it becoming much more clear as he approached. He stopped in front of it and took a breath, taking it in.

 _Jennifer Shepard_

 _Director of NCIS_

 _October 28, 1963 - May 20, 2008_

It was simple and neat, like all the other small, white headstones in Arlington. The emblem of the Navy was carved at the bottom.

He stared at her name for what seemed like an eternity, feeling a little lost.

He bent down, ignoring the pang in his knee, and traced the letters of her name. He laid down the white orchids he was carrying, admiring the way that the pink color in the middle of them brought a little more color to the white headstone.

He looked around him cautiously, making sure no one was nearby or within earshot, and looked back at her grave. He cleared his throat, feeling a little foolish and not really knowing what to say.

"Hey, Jen," he said, surprised at the emotion he suddenly felt.

He paused, not really sure how to proceed. He rolled his eyes at himself when he realized how nervous he was feeling. It wasn't like Ducky didn't do this all the time—and in Ducky's case he was doing it with actual dead bodies, not a chunk of marble.

He sat down on his butt in front of the headstone, giving his knees a break, and glanced around again.

"I, uh..." he started, trailing off and cursing under his breath while he rubbed his neck.

He wondered why this was so hard.

"My, uh...well, my therapist," he broke off, chuckling to himself and shaking his head. "Yeah, that's right, my therapist," he admitted, imagining how Jenny would've reacted to him having a therapist. He could practically see the shock and amusement in her face, could practically imagine what she would say.

 _"The almighty Jethro Gibbs, believer in the therapy of silence, boats, and bourbon, has actually stooped to admitting he is human after all and obtained what he calls a 'head shrinker'? Do you actually talk, or is your therapist a fellow monosyllabic that can communicate solely with looks?"_

He smiled at the thought.

"Her name is Grace," he continued. "Started seeing her after I got shot...that's a whole different story, but I told her I might visit, told her about you, and she told me to 'talk' to you."

He stared at the letters again, thinking about the last ten years.

"...'M sorry I haven't visited before," he said hoarsely.

He had a lot of old friends and colleagues buried in this cemetery, all in different areas, all another white marble dot among the hundreds of thousands of others.

The only reason he usually ever visited a graveyard willingly was when he went to visit his wife and daughter's grave in Stillwater—which was always an emotionally tiring and painful visit, so he only made that journey on special occasions.

He cleared his throat again, wincing at the slight pain in his knee and shifting his sitting position so he was a little more comfortable.

"You always teased me about bein' an old man, 'm definitely one now. Lot has changed over the years...I look around the office these days and realize just how old I am. Turned 60 a couple weeks ago, Jen," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "I'm the old guy everyone is expectin' to retire soon. Hell, they were all expectin' me to when I had to have heart surgery three years ago."

He thought about it for a second, remembering those dark days. Like all the other times when an Agent died, Jenny had been on his mind. This agent was Ned Dorneget, and Jethro remembered swearing he could see Jenny, Mike, Kate, Pacci, and Cassidy all standing in the distance during Ned's body transportation. It hadn't been the first—nor the last—time that he had seemed to find himself hallucinating dead people from his past.

He had been shot just days after, and had honestly been surprised he had made it out alive. He was thinking he'd finally reached the end, thinking he'd be seeing all of his deceased loved ones, friends, and colleagues again.

And then months later, after his recovery, he'd had another setback, ending up in the damn hospital again (with Dr. Taft, Abby, Bishop, and Ducky all hovering over him).

Jeanne Benoit had popped up again, and he'd found himself feeling agitated over the memories of Grenouille and Jenny that he associated with her. It was when Jeanne was asking to join them on the flight to Sudan—when the combination of the stress of the case, having her around, and all the bad Grenouille memories on the surface of his mind—had caused him to blank out and feel out of breath, collapsing into his chair and struggling to breathe properly.

It turned out he had a little scar tissue built up where he had heart surgery that had been the cause.

Still, he was secretly convinced that the sudden painful thoughts of Jenny on top of everything else had been the trigger—not that he let Taft know about any of that.

He thought about how drastically his team had changed since then—how much it had changed within the last ten years.

"The whole team is different now. Ziva left, 'bout four or five years ago. Tony's gone now too."

He wondered if he should explain any of it at all, considering the whole thing was sort of a long and convoluted story and he really was just talking to himself. He looked around again, deciding he didn't have anywhere else to be since it was his Sunday off and shrugged to himself.

"Remember that slimy bastard from the CIA, Trent Kort? He targeted Ziva, supposedly took her out. We found out right after it happened that Ziva had a little girl who survived, girl named Tali, and found out DiNozzo was her dad."

He chuckled, shaking his head again.

"I always knew they had probably broken Rule Twelve...they always reminded me of you and me back in the day. Never thought they'd have a kid, though, didn't see that one coming at all. Then Tony decided to leave NCIS, focus on raising Tali instead. He took her to Paris—" he stopped abruptly, thoughts of Paris floating through his mind as he took a steadying breath.

"Turns out Paris was their place too, Jen. Guess they were even more like us than I thought."

He remembered how after he had found out about Ziva he had ended up visiting the 'Tribute to the Fallen' wall. Just like this graveyard, that tribute was an area he had tended to avoid ever since they put it up, because it held painful reminders.

He had accepted and moved on from a lot of those peoples deaths. But he had found himself staring at Jenny's picture the longest—because no matter how many years had passed, no matter how much he thought he had moved on, he still hadn't. Today marked ten entire years since her death, and he realized he'd probably never truly move on.

"Ducky's not really at NCIS anymore either. He comes occasionally and helps out, but Palmer is the main ME now. He's done a good job filling those big shoes of Ducky's. Abby jokes around that—"

He cut himself off again, feeling his throat constrict with emotion. He kept having little moments where he forgot that she was gone too, it still hadn't completely sunk in, and he gave himself a moment to steady his emotions.

"And Abs...she's gone too..." he said hoarsely. "Left almost three weeks ago. I keep forgettin'...got so used to havin' her around everyday. Worked together 'bout 17 years. 'M not used to her lab feeling so empty...lifeless. No music, no decorations, no Abby dancin' around...feels like some kind of sterile hospital room now or somethin'."

He gazed off into the distance, missing his favorite forensic scientist, missing the woman who had practically been like a daughter to him all these years.

"You know what she did, Jen?" He asked, looking at her grave pointedly. "She took a note out of your book and left me a damn letter. Never thought I'd have that one pulled on me again," he said, shaking his head in disbelief as he smiled.

"Kind of reminded me of your letter too...talked about not bein' able to face me 'cause she knew she wouldn't be able to leave if she did. Talked 'bout how much I mattered to her, and how she only wanted to hear one thing."

He broke off, feeling guilty that he hadn't been as expressive with Abby as he should have been all these years. He'd never been good at that with anyone, especially the woman whose grave he sat in front of right now.

"But," he said, pointing, "unlike what I did with you, I didn't let her get away with it. Learned my lesson the last time. The second I saw her outside my window I ran out after her, 'cause I knew I'd regret it for the rest of my life if I didn't. Told her I loved her, gave her a kiss on the cheek, hugged her goodbye, let her cry on my shoulder a bit, and wished her well. Called her hours later to make sure she landed safely. She's doin' well, calls and checks in with me every couple of days, video chats with the team."

He smiled, simply happy that Abby was happy and experiencing new things. He was glad she was safe—but he couldn't deny he felt a little worried and paranoid about her safety now that she was no longer within elevator distance from him. He'd lost so many people in his life at this point that he didn't really have much faith in survival anymore.

He almost felt like he should thank Jenny for leaving him the way she did, because it was that experience that helped him to be smarter this time around and correct his previous mistakes.

He rubbed his hand across his chin, wishing he could hear Jenny's voice again, wishing he was actually telling all of this to _her_ and not to her grave.

"Damn it Jen, I miss you," he admitted heavily. "Miss the way things used to be. When we were on a team with Decker and Burley, and we were all younger...alive. Miss the good times we had in Europe. I miss when you were Director—and Tony, Abs, and Ziver were still around and they'd all place bets on you an' me and gossip about us...Abby would joke around that we were the 'parents' of the team."

He grit his teeth and looked away from her grave, glaring at nothing in particular.

He looked back and pressed his thumb against part of the top of it, attempting to rub off a dry bird dropping stain, a memory popping into his head.

"Remember that time in Positano when we were walking and some bird in the sky ended up pooping on you?" He recalled with a chuckle, remembering how disgusted and freaked out Jenny had gotten.

He sat there for about twenty more minutes, remembering memories and enjoying the spring day.

He gingerly got back up, hating how old he felt, and gave her grave one last hard look.

"Thanks for listenin', Jen," he simply said, still feeling a bit awkward about talking to a chunk of marble, really just talking to himself.

He did feel better though, Dr. Confalone had been right that it would help—not that he'd ever admit it to her.

He turned around and began to walk away, stopping after a couple yards. He felt compelled to look behind him, wondering if maybe he'd accidentally left something, and turned to look behind him.

There she was, standing beside her grave.

Her long red hair blew a little in the gentle breeze, and she smiled at him, looking radiant and alive, her green eyes dancing with amusement.

He felt like he couldn't breathe properly as he looked at her, studying her features.

She winked at him and he smiled.

He knew he was probably just imagining it, possibly just hallucinating like he did with Mike, but he didn't care. This was a delusion he was happy to embrace for a moment if it meant just seeing her again.

He closed his eyes after a minute and when he opened them again she was gone. Not surprised he turned around again and began the walk back to his car, wondering what was up with his head.

He realized he didn't feel guilty for not moving on, and he decided he was perfectly fine with that. He'd always be able to reflect on the past memories he had enjoyed with her, and despite the pain that sometimes accompanied those reflections, he was simply glad that he'd even experienced them in the first place.

The fact that he was able to reflect on anything was just proof that it had all happened, and he wouldn't trade those memories for anything in the world.

"Until next time then, Jen," he muttered with a smile as he walked away.

* * *

 _The End_

* * *

 _I am publishing this after working an 11 1/2 hour shift and running on less than 5 hours of sleep, so I hope it is all understandable and there are not too many mistakes with my final edit. Every time I have worked on this the past two weeks I'm always exhausted from work, so hopefully my stuff isn't completely nonsensical._

 _I know the ending may not have been what you expected or wanted—it was by far the most challenging chapter of them all for me to write. I've wanted to do a grave visit since I started this series though, so I hope it turned out okay._

 _Thank you so much to all of you who have stuck by this story the whole journey and have reviewed it. You are all very wonderful people and I am so grateful for your positive words._

 _More one-shots are on the way, and hopefully someday I'll have some time to write the long Jibbs fic that I've wanted to do for ages now._

 _Thanks again!_


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